Tabloid Trix
by bundysbaby
Summary: Follow up to Competition. join Trixie, Jim and the other Bob-Whites in New York City for a mystery, an adventure and some steamy smush!
1. Tabloid Trix Prologue

Tabloid Trix

**Prologue**

A/N: Hello, Dear Readers, and welcome to _Tabloid Trix_, my second story in my New York State of Mind Universe. It would help you to understand this story if you read _Competition _first, as we pick up a couple months after that story ends. A caution first: there are very dark parts to this story, as we are dealing with a serial killer, so if you are squeamish you may want to skip this story. Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Trix and Jim and Co. That right belongs to Random House. Not making any money off my little stories either!

_**20 years ago**_

_It was December 25 and his big sister woke him early; 5 a.m. to be exact. The tree was all decorated and their mother and father whispered excitedly to them the night before about Santa Claus leaving presents underneath the garish tree. His sister left out some milk and cookies for the jolly fat man, to help speed him along in his journey to treat all the good little boys and girls to their every wish._

_At 7 years old, he thought the whole thing was one big crock of b.s._

_When he looked at all the smiling faces at school, in the mall, even in his own house, he was perplexed. The lights, the false good cheer, presents, cookies…what did it all matter? It had nothing to do with him. It probably had nothing to do with the birth of an infant thousands of years ago who was supposed to be the Son of God._

_Another fairy tale adults told themselves and their children._

_When Jody woke him up, that December 25 he would remember for the rest of his days, he was quite put out. He was having the most delicious dream about Missoo, their poor missing cat. He helped his dad put up the LOST CAT! posters all around the village, looking suitably sad and responding appropriately to his dad's running commentary. He knew the drill, how to assume the persona of the upset little boy, pining for his beloved pet. He certainly had had enough practice._

_He didn't feel at all sad that Missoo was missing. Jody and his mom were crying about the stupid animal. Even his dad admitted he missed the wretched thing. This, after complaining almost non-stop about the litter-box smells in the house and whose damn cat was it anyways since he had to do all the work? And then suddenly Missoo wasn't there anymore and his dad was acting like he lost his best friend._

_It was all very strange._

_He observed them all through those big peculiar no-color eyes. They weren't exactly blue, or brown or hazel; they were a weird sort of non-color that made people glance away. Even at 7 years old, it was a power he enjoyed. Eyes were the windows to the soul, or so the poets said. If he had a soul, and he was absolutely certain he did not, he supposed it was a colorless as his eyes._

_Knowledge was also power, and gifted with an insatiable curiosity and shrewd intelligence, he soaked up as much of it as he could. _

_And of course, he knew exactly where Missoo was and exactly what happened to her. He had the power. Not only the power of the knowledge of what happened to their family pet, but the power over life and death._

_It was quite exhilarating._

_When Jody woke him up on Christmas morn, he reluctantly left the dream behind of the terror reflected in Missoo's eyes as he casually skinned her alive. There was blood, lots of it; he was surprised the small animal bled so much. None of the other small creatures he so carelessly and curiously butchered bled quite as much. He studied the musculature and skeletal frame of the poor, dead cat before removing her eyes. Then he tossed her aside in a dumpster, and watched how the once vibrant blue of her eyes dulled quickly, almost having a milky sort of coating on them. It was always the same. Once out of the body, the eyes quickly lost their luster._

_Then he buried her eyes. They served their purpose, his higher purpose. All the poet-speak about glints and gleams and lovelight shining out of the eyes; it was all hogwash. All the glints and gleams can be explained by the simple mechanics of blinking. Blinking kept the eyes bathed in saline tears. Once the blinking stopped, the eyes became dead and dull and no longer of any interest to him._

_He dutifully followed Jody downstairs, plastering a happy smile in his face. Oh, he learned very quickly how to mimic others' emotions. He eavesdropped on his parents and the teacher when they consulted about his condition. He knew the teacher was unnerved when he stared at her with those blank, deadly eyes. He didn't participate, she said, only watched the other children as if they were alien creatures under a microscope. She hesitated to say this to his parents, but she always felt like he wore a mask that hid something truly unnatural. And he was only 7 years old._

_Then there was the evaluation by the team of experts to see What Was Wrong. But he had grasped what the teacher relayed to his parents; he needed to refine his veneer of humanity. By following their facial cues and intonation, he supposed he passed; he wasn't locked in his brain like an autistic child, nor was he in need of special services. In fact, he was what one might term truly gifted. Just immature, the experts assured his parents. Shy. That colorless gaze, just observing the world around him, taking it all into that brilliant brain. The truly gifted were different, or so they told his parents. And his parents so desperately wanted to believe them, wanted so desperately to believe they had not birthed a monster._

_He was different; on that he agreed. He was singular in this world, maybe in this universe. His mind someday would make him a god. He already held the power of life and death over the baser creatures of the earth. Missoo had just been his latest experiment. There were many more before her. _

_On that very special, never forgotten Christmas, he and Jody ran onto their parents' bedroom, jumping on the bed and awakening them with their high-pitched, excited voices. As a family, they stumbled downstairs to the sight of mounds of presents wrapped up in silver, gold, red and green. The glass of milk was just a dried skin inside the glass, and the plate full of cookies, merely crumbs._

_To Jody, 18 months older than he, it was proof positive Santa made his yearly visit to their house. He cynically wondered which one of his parents had the duty of drinking the warm milk and which one ate the cookies – if they weren't surreptitiously placed right back in the cookie jar, to be enjoyed another day by someone other than a bearded, jolly fat man. _

_His mom made what she called caffeinated bliss out in the kitchen while his sister danced around the tree, vibrating with the desire to open her presents _right this very minute_. There were rules in their house, however, and although the punishments were not severe (for example, his parents never cut off one of his fingers for taking some candy without permission or held his hand over the gas flame of the stove for not completing his homework) the punishments could be uncomfortable. For Jody. He never minded being sent to his room without the television or his iPod. His amazing mind could take him places he was sure no human ever visited._

_Probably, no human would want to visit there._

_As they opened their gifts that Christmas morning (Jody tearing into hers like a child possessed, he being more mannerly), he wasn't thankful for the bounty of video games and a real honest-to-goodness laptop, not one of those silly leapfrog things. After all, he deserved these tokens of homage. He was quite put out that he had to share his parents' largesse with his older sister. He should have been an only child._

That _thought bore additional contemplation at a later time. _

_And then, she opened it._

_A big box, as tall as she was. The whole front of the box was clear, heavy cellophane. And inside the coffin cleverly disguised as a box was a child's body._

_His startled no-color eyes stared at the body until his brain caught up with the fever that was overtaking his senses. Not a body. And not a child. A child-size doll from the American Beauties Collection. He saw enough of the ads on television to recognize the contents. They were the hottest toys for girls this year. The manufacturer promised a doll a year, each from a different geographical area of the United States._

_Sure, there were other collections out there, very similar in nature. But the creator of ABC realized one thing the others' did not. It wasn't the kids who created the hottest, most successful toys; it was their parents. Make something the parents want, and voila, instant mega-hit. The American Beauties Collection was not cherubic little girls dressed up in silly little outfits. _

_An ABC doll was a woman._

_The box proclaimed in big red letters: "First in a Series! American Beauties Presents A Beauty from the Northernmost Central States! Open the Box to Find Out Her Name and History!"_

_She was staring right at him through her cellophane prison._

_His colorless eyes fired with something that had no place in the gaze of a seven-year-old child. _

_She was beautiful._

_Her hair was golden curls, spiraling down her graceful neck and framing her face. Her eyes were huge sapphire orbs, fringed with long curling lashes and real, working eyelids. To blink. So they would always stay bright. A slight rose blush tinted her high cheekbones, and her lush, full mouth was a natural darker rose. _

_She wore a white, peasant style blouse with deep blue rickrack around the hem of the puffed sleeves – and just tight enough to showcase her obvious cleavage. The blouse was tucked into a matching blue skirt that ended just below the doll's knees. A white bib-style apron, with matching blue rickrack around the neck and across the pockets, and a flirty frill at the hem completed the dress._

_Her shapely legs were encased in white tights and her delicate feet in blue suede maryjanes. Her hands were small and one might say, delicately boned._

_He could have sworn that big blue eye winked at him. _

_He wanted to rip her out of the box and take her in his room and do…something. He actually took a step forward, until his father looked at him with puzzlement in his eyes. He was so enraptured by the doll he failed to note that he himself was being observed._

_His father, not at all interested in dolls, child-size or not, watched him with that dollop of…fear? Loathing? Intuition? His son's eyes, those blank, colorless, _creepy_ eyes, seemed to be lit from within. With something so despicable, he felt unclean just looking. It didn't matter to him what the experts said. There was something in his son, something bad. He could feel it. Almost taste it. What was that old movie again? Yeah. _The Bad Seed._ Somehow, he knew his genius son wouldn't be contributing an astonishing advancement for mankind. His name would become synonymous with evil._

"_Cool gift Jody! She's almost as big as you! "He turned back to his laptop, punching his dad in the arm. "I'd much rather my laptop, Dad," to reassure his father that he was not going to start playing with dolls._

_Yet._

_Jody thanked Santa Claus for thinking of her, but he knew. She didn't like the doll. Not at all. Jody never was into dolls and all that; no matter how their mom tried, she would never be a girly girl. Their parents made her open the box/coffin and Jody pulled out a birth certificate/history. That's when he found out her name._

_Rebecca. But she liked to be called Becky. Becky Jonsson from Minneapolis, Minnesota. She was a college girl, studying Food Sciences. As Jody carefully replaced the certificate, being quite sure not to touch the disturbing-looking Becky, it happened._

_Becky winked at him. It was quick; stealthy, one might say. As he gazed into her hypnotically blue eyes, he was astounded. She _knew_. Becky knew the power that was in him, being refined until the day it could be unleashed. Her blue eyes begged: let me out of here. Make me alive. Save me. _

_He promised her he would._

Many thanks to my lovely and talented editor Mylee, who sacrifices her valuable time to provide me with honest opinions and great feedback!


	2. Tabloid Trix Chapter 1

Tabloid Trix Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Trixie Belden and all her friends belong to Random House, alas, and not me! No dollars, pesos or dreamy redheaded guys were given to me in exchange for this chapter!

Mr. & Mrs. James Winthrop Frayne II lay on the rug, blocking any access (or exit, for that matter) into their New York City apartment. Well, that and the locks that were hastily engaged.

Jim rolled over on his back, his breath rasping in and out of his lungs in huge draughts. His eyes were closed and the most amazing contentment was reflected in his handsome face. He was definitely too weak to move, even to provide cover for his spectacularly naked body.

Next to him lay his wife of a few weeks, Trixie Belden Frayne, similarly unclothed and likewise drawing in vast lungfuls of air. She peeked over at him, and raised her arm, feebly tapping his chest with the back of her hand. "We need to get up. We're blocking the door. Creating a fire hazard."

"Mmmmm. Maybe. In a year or two, when I've recovered."

She turned her face to him, slitting open her sapphire blue eyes. Even that took too much energy. "Jim?"

"Mmmm-hummm."

"Why is it that we have a really nice, big comfortable bed in our bedroom; a really nice comfortable bed in the guest room; a sofa and a love seat and we always end up on the floor?"

He rolled over on his side, lifted his head, and propped it up by leaning on his elbow. Opening his eyes, he gazed into the flushed face he knew better than his own. Running a long, slender finger down her side, he thoughtfully replied to her query. "Because _you_ can never wait." He paused for the retort he was sure would be forthcoming.

Trixie opened her round blue eyes all the way and stared into an ocean of green. "Me? _I_ can't wait?" she rapped him again on the chest. "You had me pinned against that door faster than an adolescent girl with a Justin Bieber poster."

Jim rolled back, howling. "You would have to bring Justin Bieber into our sex life. And what about you, Mrs. Frayne? I seem to remember someone watching me load the dishwasher a couple of days ago and…"

The rose color he loved so much washed across her cheeks. "Yeah, well, maybe we both can't wait." How could she possibly resist Jim's very fine bottom showcased in jeans that stretched so nicely when he bent over…she pulled her mind back to their present situation.

"Besides," Jim continued, "_I_ was the one suffering severe mortification when I went back home last week to drop off those papers Dad forgot here. There I was," he continued pitifully, emerald puppy dog eyes begging for sympathy. "Meeting Mother and Dad at the Manor House for lunch and without warning Mother started asking me about my allergies."

Trixie raised herself up and leaned back on her elbows. Allergies? Why on earth would her elegant mother-in-law ask Jim about his allergies? She never remembered Jim having any allergies, and said so. In fact, he was disgustingly healthy.

"Right. I don't. I'm standing there wondering what in heaven she was talking about, and I must have looked confused. And then she pointed out the hives on my knees and elbows." Jim flushed just thinking about it.

"What hives?" Trixie began, and looked down at his long legs, and discovered the answer to her mystery.

She looked back up into his amused emerald eyes, and they both said it at the same time. "Rug burn!"

Of course, at the time he reddened and couldn't meet the knowing eyes and slight smirk of his father. Matt Wheeler knew full well that the red marks on his son's extremities were not hives or an allergic reaction. Nope. They were due to a reaction all right, but not an allergic one. Lunch at home turned out to be extremely long and uncomfortable. His mother was going on about allergy testing and doctor visits and whether or not to get scratch tests or is it better to jump right into blood tests, while his father snarkily advised him to check for nylon sensitivity. If his mother stared at his father with puzzlement in her fine topaz eyes, he didn't deign to enlighten her as to his conclusion. Jim never felt so grateful to escape the strangely stifling confines of the Manor House and return to New York City. He vowed to never again wear shorts.

And his wife, the curly-haired blonde angel who promised to love and honor him through thick and thin; and whose bare legs were even now still entwined with his, was shaking with laughter at his predicament. "Oh yeah, just laugh all you want to now, Missy." Jim raised a sarcastic russet eyebrow. "Wait til you get grilled about it." That set her off even more, and she was gasping for air when she was able to choke out a reply.

Tears were streaming down her eyes as she reminded him _he_ would only ever be the one to see the places _she_ had rug burn, so it was doubtful she would face the same intensive line of questioning he suffered through. His Trixie did have a point, he thought, and damned the unfairness of it all. And then collapsed with her in gales of laughter.

As their hilarity subsided, they both became aware of the places their bodies still touched, bare skin to bare skin, and the desire always simmering under the surface began to build again. "I love you, Trix. I've loved you forever, it seems." Jim's emerald eyes were darkening with the passion that thrilled her to her very core, and his lips were slowly descending to hers.

They were rudely interrupted as the shrill whistle of a Bob-White blared out of his cell phone. "Oh woe, Jim! We nearly forgot. Everyone is meeting here tonight for dinner right before classes start." Trixie jumped up, picking up their discarded clothing while Jim fished around for the phone, triumphantly answering it right before voicemail picked up, and viewing his wife's bare backside, rug burn and all, with a totally male grin of appreciation.

"Hi Honey." Caller ID was a beautiful thing.

"Hi to my very own full-blooded adopted big brother," came the cheerful chirps of his sister's voice. "What took you so long to answer the phone?" As soon as the words fell out of her mouth, Honey realized _exactly_ what could prevent her brother from answering on the first or second ring, now that he was married.

"Couldn't find the phone," he answered succinctly and mostly truthfully. He just neglected to add the part that it was under the heaps of clothing he and Trixie shed in their haste just a while ago.

"We're still on for tonight, right? Everybody at your place?" After Trixie and Jim's wedding, as they left for their honeymoon, the remaining Bob-Whites decided to enforce some new rules, now that the two were married.

_At the large round table in the Beldens' back yard, the remaining Bob-Whites and Kaitlin sat, rather quietly for once. Both sets of parents were seeing off the last of the revelers, and the flat feeling that occurred after a major event was settling in for a stay. _

"_It was a nice wedding." Kaitlin felt uncomfortable with the morose silence, more suited to a funeral than a wedding._

_Dan jumped in. "Very nice. Where are they honeymooning again?" He knew very well where they were headed to, but supported Kaitlin in her quest to break the sadness that suddenly seemed to dwell at the table. _

"_St. Bart's, in the Caribbean. Our family has a villa there. It'll be so romantic for them." Honey sighed, picturing Jim and Trixie walking barefoot and hand in hand along a white sugar beach, as the sun set in brilliant colors._

_Brian's brows snapped together, as if the picture that Honey was painting with her words offended him. He had been very quiet at times during the wedding. Mart and Dan noticed, but did not tax him as to why. Brian was puzzling something out, and when he deciphered a solution he would offer up his concerns to what was now his family, more than ever._

_He was trying to discover a method of bringing up a very uncomfortable subject, without really talking about it. After all, he reasoned, Jim was Honey's brother, Trixie was his and Mart's sister, and Dan acted as a brother to all of them just as Di was another sister. Even convoluting the conundrum further, Honey was now Trixie's sister-in-law and his own girlfriend; and Jim was his and Mart's brother-in-law. If he married Honey, he and Trixie and Jim and Honey would be double in-laws, and if Mart married Di she'd be an in-law too. And if Dan ever married Kaitlin, she'd be an in-law and the sister of the man Trixie, well, dumped wouldn't be the right word, but it was close enough. Brian rubbed between his eyes, to alleviate the slight headache he was developing, and wondered sarcastically if he could sell a reality series based on their quite interesting connections. _

_The viewers would probably need a flow chart to get through the maze._

_Di glanced around the yard, so gaily decorated with wedding bell fairy lights that were beginning to glimmer. The summer evening was warm, not sultry, and she and Honey had shucked the jackets to their dresses a while back, just as the men loosened their ties and put their jackets on the back of the chairs. Mart patted her hands and rose to help himself to another large piece of the delicious wedding cake the Wheelers' cook had donated to the festivities. She vaguely wondered where on earth he put all the food he consumed on a daily basis. If she could discover and patent the secret, she'd own the world._

_She turned her violet gaze towards Dan and Kaitlin. They seemed to suit each other, at least temporarily; Dan was never one for long-term relationships. She only hoped Kaitlin was aware of this. One broken heart per family was quite enough. "So Kaitlin," she began, "Have you and Aidan found student housing yet in the City?"_

"_Oh God, we were so lucky! I never thought I would be grateful that my father had so many Army contacts." Her parents were looking for quite a while, trying to find affordable housing for them with no luck. "One of my dad's friends is stationed overseas for a couple of years, and when he returns to the States, it will be out in San Diego. He has an apartment in Manhattan that he owns, and he's subletting it to us. It works out for him since he doesn't have to pay the maintenance fee, and for us because we need a place to stay."_

"_Really?" Dan interrupted. "You didn't tell me that." _

"_I just found out about it this morning and with the wedding excitement and all, it slipped my mind."_

_Mart shifted forward, twirling his fork in the air. "Where is the building?" Although he was sure that Kaitlin's parents would not let her move into a high-crime area, sometimes people were clueless, especially regarding Manhattan. _

"_Oh it's great!" Kaitlin's eyes reflected the white fairy lights. "We're on the third floor, a smallish apartment but just right for us." She gave them the address that she had memorized from the email her father showed her and Aidan that morning. His friend had included pictures of the place and it really was very charming. Two bedrooms, a tiny living room and galley style kitchen. They'd be sharing a bathroom and a half, not too shabby for Manhattan. _

_Five pairs of startled eyes in various hues stared back at her._

_In his best Humphrey Bogart voice, Mart intoned, "Of all the apartment buildings in all of New York City, she moves into ours."_

_Diana, playing the fool and breaking the silence after Mart's impression, exclaimed, "John Wayne! And you did that so well, Mart!" As Mart gave her a sudden frown and the table broke up in laughter, she thought, with a large dollop of sarcasm, _well, this should be interesting_. Aidan living in the same building as Trixie and Jim, and Kaitlin with love 'em and leave 'em Daniel Mangan. Di blew out a breath. Her first year in college promised to be very stimulating._

_Kaitlin was looking at Mart as if he grew two heads, and Dan stepped in. "It seems, Ms. McCourt, that your new digs in the great city of New York are oh, about 11 floors below the current Bob-White roost. So we're all going to be one big, happy Sleepyside family." God help us all._

_Before Kaitlin could marshal her scattered thoughts, Brian chimed in. "And that's exactly it!"_

_Honey placed her head in her hands and gave a very ladylike snort. "What's it, Brian?" She widened her topaz eyes and shrugged her shoulders. "I feel like Alice in the rabbit hole. Or maybe Rod Serling in the Twilight Zone."_

_Brian scrubbed at his chin, not even feeling prickliness of the five o'clock shadow. "I don't know whether it's occurred to any of you, but Trixie and Jim's marriage changes a lot of things for us."_

_At that, Mart actually put down his fork and stopped eating. "Like what, Bri? They're still our co-presidents. We're still the Bob-Whites of the Glen. We're still all for one and one for all. I can't say that about the brothers and sisters thing, because, well, it would just be too nasty to conjecture."_

_Exasperated, Brian sighed. "But they're _married _now." It was delivered in the same tone he might use to announce he was being audited by the IRS. When everyone just stared back at him like he lost his mind, he searched for the right words. Now where was Mart's walking dictionary mind when one really needed it?_

"_Well, you know what happens when people get married." He actually blushed._

"_Um, yeah, first they get engaged, then have a wedding with someone officiating and sometimes a reception afterward. Then they take off on a honeymoon, just like Trixie and Jim did." For the life of him, Dan could not see where Brian was going with all this._

"_No! I mean, yes, but, hell. You're missing the point." He looked beseechingly at Honey, who was just as perplexed as the rest of them. He briefly wondered if everyone took a stupid pill that morning._

"_Okay. I'll try this in words of one syllable or less. Jim and Trix wed. They are healthy, young adults. They are going to be doing a lot of what young, healthy newlyweds do. Probably." He ran a distracted hand through his black curls. "It's not like a date where you go home at night and see your friends in the morning." _

"_Oh my god, Brian." Dan bent his head and clunked it on the table a few times. "I think we're all old enough to understand the difference between dating and marriage."_

_Brian rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed for a silver tongue. Or maybe just a dry-erase board so he could draw a picture. With captions. He glanced over at Kaitlin and saw her eyes light up with understanding, and was pathetically grateful that one person at the table had an ounce of brains._

_She cleared her throat. "I think what Brian is trying to say is Jim and Trixie are newlyweds and they are going to be humping like bunnies for a while." Geez, were all these people from the 1950s or something? It was just sex. You learned about it in school. Or television, or the movies. _

_Brian chimed in. "Right! Right! As much as it pains to me to admit it, Kaitlin is correct. Not that my sister's ummm, sex life concerns me all that much, but we have to consider now that they are going to want some alone time. Maybe a lot of alone time," Brian finished miserably. While he wouldn't have phrased it as bluntly as Kaitlin just did, at least she got him off the rambling explanation he tried so hard not to say._

_Honey put her long, slender hands to her flaming cheeks. Somehow, it just seemed wrong to be sitting here and sort-of discussing her brother's and new sister-in-law's intimate life. Arrowing her topaz gaze into Brian's black one, she spoke. "I, ummm, I fail to see how their ummm, wanting to be together impacts on us. I mean we're all dating each other and there are no problems."_

"_But how much are we really together, Honey? Maybe a few hours on a date." Or a whole bunch of time in a luxurious suite at the Plaza, but he wouldn't mention that. "Jim and Trix have a whole new dynamic. Maybe they won't want to spend as much time with us. They have to get used to being together 24/7. And we have to respect that. No dropping by unexpectedly, or you know, intruding on their privacy. Basic courtesy like calling before we come over, that kind of thing."_

_Mart listened to this little speech and finally could not contain the laughter that bubbled up. Ignoring the daggers Brian's eyes were pitching his way, he wryly offered his opinion. "Brian. They're not going to be setting up a red velvet swing in the living room with gilt-edged mirrors on the wall." Di's head swiveled round to Mart at that. It sounded…kind of fascinating._

_Dan, ever-mindful that Brian was slow to temper, but just a volatile as Trixie when he was pushed too far, tried to hold onto the belly laugh that threatened to erupt any second. He leaned over and patted Honey's forearm. "Honey, I mean this in the most affectionate way possible, but Brian? Jim Frayne? The suave and sophisticated guy who took five years to put a move on Trixie? I don't see him turning into Captain Studly overnight." He held up a hand as Honey began to sputter in defense of her brother. "Let's just agree that we will be respectful of their relationship. Call, text, telegraph, fax, pony express, whatever."_

_It sounded reasonable, and they finished out the exciting day in perfect harmony._

"Still on, Honey. I think Trix decided on pasta with meat sauce." Initially, they discussed just getting some pizzas, but Trixie quickly vetoed that suggestion. There would probably be more than enough nights after school started and the various other activities they were involved in when neither one of them would have the time nor the inclination to cook. Pizza was going to become a diet staple. Jim already had Luca's on speed dial.

"Okay, Di and I will bring the salad. I think the boys are bringing drinks. And Mart will be bringing his appetite, so be prepared!"

"Will do. See you sevenish." Severing the connection, Jim wandered out to the kitchen. Trixie already put the big pot of sauce on the stove to heat up. Several large loaves of homemade Italian bread rested under dishtowels, waiting to be popped into the oven. His lips tilted up at the corners. He really needed to give Moms his thanks. Trixie was an excellent cook, much more accomplished than he, and armed with Moms' recipes, made the days she cooked total culinary delights.

He meandered back to their bedroom, stopping to pick up their crumpled clothes where Trix had just dropped them in a heap. Placing them in the hamper, he heard the shower start. With a devilish grin, Jim crept into the bathroom and slid open the shower door. "Need some help there, Mrs. Frayne?" he asked, already stepping in. Two soapy arms slid around his neck, and he – _they_ - were lost.

Dan was the first to arrive. Hoping that Mart would not polish off the cooler full of water and soda they were contributing to the evening, he really needed to speak to the Fraynes. Alone. Why was it that good intentions always had a habit of going awry? His only concession to nerves was the constant shifting of one foot to the other. Hoo boy.

"Hey, Dan." Jim opened the door with a grin. Yup. Marriage was good. No more sneaky and snarky Dan Mangan to deal with on a daily basis.

"Hey, Jim. Something sure smells good."

"Yeah, I'm starving already." The two men walked back to the kitchen, taking a couple of stools at the island, well out of Trixie's way. "Anything I can do to help, Trix?"

"Nope, everything is under control. Hi, Dan." Trixie was browning the meat before adding it to the sauce, keeping a little secret. Instead of ground beef, she was adding ground turkey. She knew if she told Jim, he would complain it didn't taste right. Wifely secrets, she smiled to herself. It didn't take long before they started.

"Trix." Dan took a deep breath and plunged right in. "Ah, I have a little confession to make to the both of you," he began, praying that neither one took a swing at him. He would be honor bound to let either one beat the hell out of him.

"Mmmm, and what's that, Dan?" Trixie wasn't really paying attention to him, and Jim was pleasurably engrossed in checking out his wife's backside. Again. It was still swell looking, even with clothes covering it.

"God, I hope you don't mind, but I invited Kaitlin to dinner." That was part one. He needed to complete the confession and receive absolution. He eyed the knife block on the counter next to him and discreetly moved it out of reach. No sense in having sharp objects readily available.

"Dan, there's plenty to go around. I made a lot so I can freeze some for Jim and me to have when we're too busy to cook. Besides," she added, stirring the secret ingredient into the pot, "I like Kaitlin."

Dan's fingers began tapping out a beat on the counter. "Thanks, but there's more." He paused. "I invited her, and then she didn't want to intrude at first," he looked down at his restless hands. "And then she didn't want to leave her brother alone, you know, in the big city when they just moved in and I, ummm, ended up telling her that he could come, too."

Oh my. Trixie was astonished. Jim and Aidan breaking bread together? The last conversation the two men had was when Aidan informed Jim he would be waiting in the wings for her if Trixie's relationship with Jim failed. Jim was not exactly thrilled when Aidan bent down and kissed her cheek, right in front of him, and when they were just newly engaged. Chewing on her bottom lip, she turned slowly to gauge Jim's reaction.

Jim swiveled and looked Dan straight in the face. "You invited Ian to _my_ house?" he asked, his emerald eyes darkening. Unfortunately, Jim was never able to completely control his jealousy. He knew it, recognized it, and it still bit into him with pit-bull tenacity.

"Aidan, Jim, _Aidan_ not Ian." Trixie was exasperated Jim persisted in calling her friend by the incorrect name. She glanced over at Dan and saw the misery written in the set lines of his face. Putting a slender hand over her husband's large freckled one, and stilling Dan's twitchy fingers with the other, she spoke sternly to both.

"Dan, you absolutely did the right thing. It's a hard city to be alone in, and Aidan – and Kaitlin - will need friends. He's spent his life shuttling from one place to another. At least the Bob-Whites can be a constant in his life." She turned to Jim. "And _you_, James Winthrop Frayne II," she began, and for one millisecond he was in the kitchen in his old farmhouse with his mother. She used just that tone of voice and his full name whenever he was caught doing something mischievous. "I married _you_ for better or for worse. You will refer to Aidan by his correct name. And there will not be an excess of testosterone at my dinner table tonight."

Dan exhaled sharply, pleased that he was still intact and they weren't feeding body parts into the garbage disposal. His body parts. Jim's green gaze caught at Trixie's sapphire one, and softened. She was right. Ian, no, Aidan – and Kaitlin - would need a support group. And she _did_ marry him. He'd suck it up, for her.

But God help Aidan if he laid just one wayward lip on his wife.

Trixie, Honey and Di were in the roomy kitchen, and the male contingent of the BWGs were arguing in the living room about who was going to go the distance this year, the Yanks or the Mets. Rolling her eyes, Trixie sighed. "I thought I left this argument back at Crabapple Farm." Jim, Mart, Dan and her father were ardent Yankee fans. Brian, Bobby, Matt Wheeler and Regan were Mets to the core. It was hell when the teams played each other.

Honey bit her lip, and pitched her voice low. "I can't believe Dan invited Aidan, Trixie." She eyed her brother, his emerald eyes bright and his large hands gesturing wildly to make a point. "Is Jim going to behave?" Honey was well aware of Jim's unevolved possessive nature. He was nearly crazy with jealousy when Ned Schultz monopolized Trixie all those years ago at Happy Valley Farm. She'd seen him warn away other guys with a piercing green look whenever one of them approached her best friend. She knew how upset her brother was when he thought he was losing Trixie to the man he persisted in calling Ian.

"Dan didn't exactly invite Aidan," Trixie murmured. "He invited Kaitlin. She didn't want to leave Aidan alone on their first days here."

Di grabbed an olive and popped it in her mouth. "Dan's seeing an awful lot of Kaitlin, isn't he? Do you think he's in luuvvve?" Di stretched the word out, giggling. Dan in love. Now there was a thought.

A knock on the door interrupted the conversations, both in the kitchen and in the living room, and a slight tension electrified the air. Rising to his feet and crossing to the door, Jim looked through the peephole and opened it, plastering a welcoming smile on his face that felt more like a grimace.

"Hi Kaitlin. C'mon in." He swung the door open.

"Hey Jim," Kaitlin said quietly. "I think you know my brother Aidan." She was practically vibrating with nerves. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

"Sure do. Hi Aidan." He forced his emerald eyes to the grey-green ones of the other man who loved Trixie. "Welcome to our home."

"Thanks, Jim. Ah, Kaitlin made a cake." He extended the cake, covered in a plastic dome, like a sort of sacrificial offering for peace.

"That's really nice of you." Jim took the offering from Aidan's suddenly nerveless fingers. Aidan's eyes swept past Jim and saw _her_.

Trixie.

He actually drew in an audible breath. Seeing her again was like being punched in the gut. He closed his eyes briefly and wondered if it would ever stop hurting. If he could ever look at her and not want. Jim had turned to bring the cake to the kitchen, and missed the naked longing reflected on Aidan's face. Kaitlin, however, did not and sharply elbowed her brother in the side. "Stop it, Aidan," she hissed, before pinning a smile on her face and following Jim into the living room.

"If either of you are thirsty, there's a cooler full of soft drinks and water over there." Jim gestured to the cooler with his cake-platter filled hands. "I'm going to bring this to the kitchen and be right back."

Dan stood up immediately and approached Kaitlin. "Hey there, pretty Kaitlin." A peck on the cheek, when he would really just like to ravish that berry-bright mouth. "Hi Aidan. C'mon and join us guys while the gals do their kitchen magic. Yankees or Mets?" He clapped Aidan on the shoulder and drew him in.

Raising his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders, Aidan joined the group. "Uh…Red Sox?" This brought forth hoots of derision and the demand to defend his choice in baseball teams. Why, the Red Sox were anathema to all New York fans. And they had a fan in their midst? Unheard of!

"Hey Kaitlin, thanks for bringing dessert," Trixie said as Kaitlin entered the kitchen, noticing the older girl giving one last look to the yummy Dan.

"No, thank you for having us. I hope Dan didn't cause a problem." The girls noted Kait's nervousness and sympathized.

"Trix and Jim always have plenty of food," Honey interjected. "We'd love to see more of you and Aidan while we're all here in the City. Us Sleepysiders have to stick together!"

"We'd sure love that too, Honey. We've lived all over, but nowhere as big and exciting and dangerous as the Big Apple." Kaitlin studied the large, bright kitchen with its multitude of high-end appliances. "Your apartment is charming and so big. Did you and Jim buy all new everything when you moved in?"

"Oh gleeps, no." Trixie popped the bread into the oven, her face flushed from the heat. "All the apartments on this floor belong to my father-in-law, Matt Wheeler. After we're all done using them as very fancy dorms, he'll use them for business associates and somewhere for the family to stay when we have a need to be the City."

"But you have such lovely furniture," Kaitlin protested.

Di chimed in. "Yup. All mostly furnished courtesy of the Crabapple Farm and Manor House attics. Except," she waggled her fine black brows expressively, "Jim and Trixie's bedroom. That's all them."

A flood of vibrant red washed over Trixie's high cheekbones and she involuntarily glanced at her handsome husband. The big iron bed, with it curling vines and its pillow-soft mattress had been their first purchase as an officially engaged couple. She still remembered how she and Jim both turned a very interesting shade of red as the salesman blithely informed them the heavy iron frame coupled with the high end mattress would 'take a beating.' After the sale was completed, they ran out of the store and broke down in gales of embarrassed laughter. Take a beating, indeed, Trixie snorted. All that money, and it was more like their _floors_ needed to take a beating.

Just then, a blonde head popped into the kitchen. "C'mon, Trix, we're starving out here. When's dinner going to be ready?" Mart was really hungry, and the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen were only making him more ravenous.

"Well, Mr. Bottomless Pit, you win the prize."

Mart looked at his sister. "What prize?" he asked, suspiciously. He knew his almost-twin well. There was a catch somewhere.

"For being the first male Bob-White to whine and ask when dinner is going to be done, you get to set the table." Trixie shoved a stack of colorful pasta plates in his hands.

"Don't worry baby, I'll help," Diana cooed, scooping up the salad plates and cutlery and disappearing into the dining room with a disgruntled Mart.

"What can I do?" Kaitlin asked, anxious to be of help, needing to quell her attack of nerves.

Honey handed her a stack of plastic tumblers. "You can bring these in and gather up the guys. Trix and I will bring in everything else." Honey slid the golden-brown loaves from the oven placed them in the breadbasket. Covering them with a towel, she watched as Trixie drained the pasta, and slid it into a large bowl.

As she was ladling the sauce into the tureen, Honey said lowly, "Did you tell Jim yet?"

Trix heaved a sigh and whispered back. "No. Not yet. I don't know how he is going to take this. We're still in the honeymoon phase. I figured I'd just announce it now, and hopefully have the support of the rest of the Bob-Whites." She bit her lip. "You don't mind, do you Honey, really?"

Slipping her slender arms around her sister-in-law and hugging her tightly, Honey whispered back. "No, not at all, Trix. It's simply wonderful. I was so happy when you called me this morning. Now let's get this food in there before Mart expires."

As she walked into the dining room, Trixie noted with a sarcastic tilt her brows that Aidan was as far away from her seat as it was possible to be. "Hi Aidan," she greeted him. "I hope you're hungry."

He couldn't help himself, wouldn't be able to help himself, even if Jim Frayne's deadly fists decided to use his face as the next practice dummy. He greeted her softly, stated how hungry he was, but could not prevent the sexy smile and look of longing that graced his face. He felt Kait's swift kick to the shins under the table, and dipped his head. It was simply beyond his control at the present time.

Almost everyone at the table saw the naked emotion in Aidan's face. Trixie was busy putting the bowls of pasta and sauce on the table and missed it; Jim was busy uncovering the fragrant, hot loaves of bread. Dan covered his face with his hands and scrubbed there. This was not turning out to be such a great idea. If Aidan kept looking at Trixie like that, there's no telling what Jim might decide was proper punishment. For both of them.

"This is a wonderful old table Trixie! So large! Another relic from the attics?" Kaitlin desperately started some conversation. Anything, anything at all until her brother caught hold of his rampaging hormones.

"Yes, but not from Jim's parents or mine. Mrs. Vanderpoel, one of our neighbors and probably the sweetest woman alive, presented it to us as a wedding gift. It was unhappily gathering dust in her attic she said, and she said it whispered to her that it needed to be surrounded again by family and friends to cheer it up." As the bowls were passed around, Trixie went on to explain that Mrs. Vanderpoel was a widow without close family, and adopted the Bob-Whites as her own.

"This is really delicious, Trixie," Aidan contributed to the conversation. "Is the bread homemade?" He was watching the newlyweds throughout the meal; how Trixie gently rubbed Jim's knuckles; how he interlaced his fingers with her hand and kissed the back of it. Those loving actions and constant little touches may have brought pinpricks of despair to his heart, but he could not deny the love they shared.

"Yeah, Aidan, thanks. We're lucky we have the big Subzero stand-alone freezer. Moms gave us plenty of containers full of her Crabapple Farm specials. When I make things like the sauce or bread dough, I always make extra batches to freeze."

As bowls and glasses were emptied and filled again, conversation centered around the thrill of beginning college years for the girls and Aidan; and squeezing in all the required courses for Kaitlin and the men.

"Okay guys, you're on," Trixie announced. "The female contingent prepared your delicious repast. Now it's your turn to do the dirty work of clean-up." Of course, it was nothing like clean-up back at the Farm. Moms insisted each dish and piece of cutlery be thoroughly washed, rinsed, dried by hand and returned to its proper resting place.

All the _guys_ had to do was rinse and load the dishwasher. Somehow, that fact did not quite make up for the thousands of dishes that passed through Trixie's rubber gloves, or the hours of her life spent cleaning up after her brothers. While the men were grumbling under their breath, Trixie cut Kaitlin's chocolate layer cake into pieces and plated them. By the time the guys were finished, dessert awaited them as well as tall cold glasses of milk.

Honey looked intently at Trixie. It was time to talk. Trix gave her a slight nod and stood up. "So," she began, "Here we are all seven of us, and two new friends all in the same city at the same time." She began nervously plaiting her fingers together, bringing frowns to the male Bob-Whites. They all knew the signs. Something was up. They were all of one thought…_please don't let her be involved in a mystery_.

She went and stood behind Jim, and gently placed her hands on his broad shoulders. "As you all know, I was ummm…very busy right before the prom and up until just a few days ago. Which is why the letter slipped my mind. Then I couldn't find it, and I got another one, here. I can only think I packed it in one of the boxes in the attic, because my mind was, well, on other things." A rose flush bloomed across her cheeks and she tightened her hold on Jim.

He responded by covering her slender hands with his own much larger ones. Leaning his head back against her chest, he peered up at his wife. "You're not making much sense, Mrs. Nonsense of America," he chided her gently. "What letter?"

Trixie took a deep breath and looked at Honey. "It was an invitation. A very exclusive invitation."

"Really Trix? Where? It sounds so exciting," Diana's eyes sparkled.

"It's kind of not a where, but more like a what."

Mart exploded with impatience. "Just spit it out, Trixie. I don't want to miss my graduation while you beat around the bush."

"Have any of you, other than Honey, ever heard of Edmond Locard?"

"I did Trix. He's a French physician and criminologist who is considered the father of forensic science. We studied him in Cop College. He formulated the basic principle of forensic science – that every contact leaves a trace." Dan did have an inkling where this was going, and he looked in awe at Trixie.

"Well, there's this exclusive society, the Locard Society. It's made up of the foremost detectives, pathologists, criminologists and others in the world. Their membership is limited to 89, that's how old Dr. Locard was when he died. They study cold cases and look for clues to help various agencies apprehend the ones that got away. In order to get in you have to be proposed by a Member in good standing and the Membership has to vote your acceptance."

Brian studied his sister's flushed face. "So this Locard Society invited you to observe them?" That would be an exemplary honor for a freshman studying criminology. He felt rather proud of her.

"No, Brian. They want me to become a Member." She sat down heavily as the others looked at her in varying degrees of shock. "If I accept, I would become the youngest Member ever appointed. And the first non-professional."

Dan, the only one at the table other than Honey who appreciated the honor that was being extended to Trixie, could not conjecture who could possibly be a member and propose Trixie as one. It wasn't like any of them were conversant with the highly skilled law enforcement professionals who were in the Society. He seriously doubted if Chief Molinson back home was secretly a member, and even if he was, doubted he would ever advance Trixie as a member. "Do you know who put your name up?"

Dan was in for a second, even larger shock when Trixie responded.

"Yes, I do. There's another part to this invitation." Red crept over her cheeks. "Dr. William Breitling and Stephen Jensen brought my name to the table. They, uh, offered me the membership and a paid internship. In other words, they want to train me."

At Dan's audible gasp, Jim, who had been unnaturally quiet, added his voice. "Who are they, Trix?"

Dan jumped in. Dr. William Brietling was the foremost authority living on the complexities of the criminal mind and deviant behavior. His expertise in reading people and clues was renowned throughout the law enforcement world. Detective Stephen Jensen was an expatriate Brit, formerly with Scotland Yard and Interpol, and now freelancing with various agencies. He was widely regarded as the living Sherlock Holmes. Dan's chocolate brown eyes were boring holes into Trixie's clear blue ones.

"Remember when we went to Mississippi? Honey and I were kidnapped by a gang of international arms dealers," Trixie explained to Aidan and Kait. "We ended up helping the Secret Service catch the gang and round up the guns. Apparently, the Secret Service has been watching us – me – and that's how I was brought to the attention of the Locard Society." She ought to have known Chief Ogilvie would be keeping an eye on her.

Jim turned his troubled green eyes on his wife. It was one thing to think that in the future sometime she might be opening a detective agency with his sister. Although he never would admit it, he secretly hoped Trixie and his sister would continue on to law school and perhaps pursue public service – his wife would make one hell of a prosecuting attorney. And so would his sister. And it wasn't quite as dangerous as pursuing the criminals themselves. It was a very daunting thing to realize his Trix was indeed an intuitive and gifted detective, so much so that she caught the attention of a group like the Locard Society. "When do you have to let them know?" Jim's question was very quiet.

"I have an interview and look-see tomorrow, Jim, and I was hoping you could come with me. It's not far from here, actually, the offices are in a renovated brownstone in Greenwich Village." Trixie flushed a vibrant red as she gazed at the assembled group. "I kind of feel like a fraud. In almost every case I was involved in, I had all of you behind me, whether you were there physically or not. I didn't solve mysteries all by myself."

Brian grasped Honey's hand under the table and squeezed it. How was _she_ feeling? After all, Honey and Trixie were a team from the moment they met. Yet Trixie was being singled out for this honor, effectively leaving Honey in the dust. That had to hurt. She squeezed back and he looked into her clear topaz eyes. Amazingly, they shone with happiness and pride; there was not one iota of jealousy reflected there.

"Well Squaw," Mart hearkened back to the childhood nickname, "I'm sure when you get there tomorrow they'll realize it was a case of mistaken identity, and they were actually trying to contact Trip Velden." He wasn't sure how he felt about this. Pride, naturally. The Locard Society? It sounded like, oh, maybe one of those secret clubs of vampires who sacrificed unwilling maidens.

"Ho ho, lamebrain," Trixie responded. Turning back to Jim, she asked him again. "Will you accompany me Jim? They invited me and you."

Jim's green gaze was swallowed up in the sea of bright blue excitement. He couldn't deny her this. As the Bob-Whites faded into the background, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. "Of course I'll go with you, Trix." He needed to see this place, needed to meet the men who had an interest in his wife. And then his world shut down as she planted her soft lips on his.

Di sighed. The way Jim looked at Trixie, and she at him, she was surprised there were not scorch marks all over their apartment. Raising an eyebrow and turning to the rest of the group, she dryly wondered out loud what happened to the couple who took five long years to get beyond fond glances.

"I don't know," Dan replied, tongue firmly in cheek. "They seem to have been replaced by pod-Trixie and pod-Jim."

Brian kicked Jim under the table. These PDAs were getting out of hand.

"Ow!" Jim broke off the very lengthy, very hot kiss, and returned to reality. He wasn't going to apologize. He was in his own house, with his own wife, and if he wanted to kiss her soft, delectable lips for an extended period of time, well that was his prerogative.

"Do you guys have all this excitement, fun, drama and ummm hot, wet kisses surrounding you all the time?" Kaitlin was amused and sort of aroused. It was completely clear to her that Jim Frayne did certain things very, very well. And that Trixie Frayne was a very, very lucky woman. She also hoped the intense kiss the two shared would help Aidan let go of his fantasies about the petite blonde. A glance over at his face showed a mulish expression and shuttered eyes.

Patting his hand in sympathy, she stood up. "Congratulations, Trixie. I hope everything goes well at the interview. It sounds like a terrific opportunity. Kind of like if I was asked to intern say, at Donna Karan." It was getting late, and Aidan had a meeting with his freshman advisor tomorrow, and she still did not buy all of her books. Thanking her again for a wonderful meal, Aidan also stood and offered his rather stilted thanks. Suddenly, like a mass exodus of lemmings, goodbyes and hugs were being exchanged and Bob-Whites were scurrying out the door.

Dan made the decision to escort Kaitlin and Aidan to their apartment. It didn't _mean_ anything. You could never tell what kind of perverts were hanging around in the elevators in a secure, doorman-guarded, upscale apartment house.

Quickly taking advantage of the situation, Mart pulled Diana into the boys' apartment and slammed the door. Shrugging slightly, Brian went into Honey's apartment. He needed to talk to her, anyway.

Trixie and Jim were left staring at the backs of their departing guests. Glancing down at the table full of used cake plates, forks and empty tumblers they looked back at each other with amazement. "I'll handle the clean-up Trix," he said quietly, too quietly. He had that pinched look around his eyes, one that hadn't graced his handsome face in a long while. "Then, we have to talk."

**At Kaitlin's and Aidan's Apartment**

Aidan made his excuses at the door and quickly went inside to lick his wounds. Kait and Dan were standing a bit awkwardly at the door, when Dan let out a big sigh.

"Well, nobody was maimed or murdered tonight, so I count that as a plus," he began.

Kaitlin lifted her grey-green eyes to Dan's melted chocolate ones. "I'm sorry Aidan was so, I don't know, blatant about his jealousy. I don't understand it. It's not like he and Trixie were even an item. It's not like he's mooning over her, pining away, not dating. He went out a number of times with Leigh Michaels back in Sleepyside." The irritation showed in her expressive face. The BWGs were nice people, seemed like they would be wonderful friends, and she didn't want Aidan's obsession interfering with that, or her burgeoning relationship with Dan.

"It's Trixie-magic." Dan casually leaned one arm against the door, trapping Kaitlin just a little bit. "She has that effect on red-headed males. Jim was toast from the first time he saw her when he was 15. And let me tell you, my Uncle Bill is one of the toughest cookies around and she has him wrapped around her little finger. Matt Wheeler can deny her nothing. One swish of those blonde curls or blink of those big blue eyes and wham! Redheads for miles around run to do her bidding."

Kaitlin peeped shyly up at Dan. "I'm just so glad it's not guys with dark hair," she smiled, and felt a small thrill run through her when he placed his other arm on the door on the other side of her, trapping her there.

Then it was all either of them could do to think as his lips lowered to hers.

**At the Girls' Apartment**

Brian pulled Honey down onto the comfortable sofa. "Are you sure you don't mind all this with Trixie and the Locard Society? After all, it _is_ going to be the Frayne-Wheeler Detective Agency."

Honey looked into Brian's well-loved face, seeing the concern reflected there. "Well, I won't lie to you and say I'm not just a bit jealous." Seeing thunderclouds descend upon his brow, she hastened to explain. "Brian, you know Trix attracts mysteries like a magnet. She's the brilliant one in that regard. And having a membership in a society like the Locard one can do nothing but help our agency. Think of the training she'll get, by the best in the world. And two, there is only one membership available. If it has to be someone, there's no-one I would like better than my partner and sister-in-law to be the one to get it."

"You really are as sweet as your name," Brian murmured, stroking her hair. "I…" He never finished the sentence. Honey's delectable lips prevented him from doing so, and he could do nothing but go along for the ride.

**At the Boys' Apartment**

Mart followed the sway of Diana's shapely hips into the spacious kitchen. "I still say it sounds like a secret society of devil worshippers._ The Locard Society_," he intoned in a sepulchral voice. Seating himself at the island, he proceeded to expound on his theory. "I can see the opening scene now. A group of figures, all clad in monks' robes – devilish red of course – in a cavernous secret chamber under the mysterious brownstone in Greenwich Village. A beautiful, petite blonde, dressed in virginal white, being bundled down the worn stone steps toward the unholy altar. Strange chanting begins to fill the air and the glint of a knife…"

Diana stopped his soliloquy by punching him, not too gently, in the arm. Stepping between his knees, she shuddered. "Stop it, Mart! You're going to give me nightmares!" Sending him an arch look, she continued. "And there ain't nothing virginal about your sister! Not married to the studly James Winthrop Frayne."

"Oh my god, you're making my ears bleed," Mart moaned. He did not want to acknowledge his sister even had a sex life, never mind that her husband was probably jumping her at every available moment.

"Oh, poor baby," Diana purred, leaning closer. Running her lips over the shell of his ear, she whispered throatily, "Just let me kiss them all better."

**At Trixie and Jim's Apartment**

Jim finished loading up the dishwasher and went in search of his wife. She was in their bedroom, dressed for bed in one of his old t-shirts, sitting pensively at the window seat. She was so beautiful, so delicate and sexy he was just staggered by the welling of love he felt. He couldn't have been more desirable to him if she was wearing the latest from Victoria's Secret. His fingers itched to just touch her again.

And therein lie the rub, he thought sarcastically. That gorgeous blonde was in fact no porcelain doll, no matter how much she resembled one. Nope. She was a warrior, his iron butterfly. That fascinating head of hers was full of murder and mayhem and not nail appointments and Saks Fifth Ave. And really, he didn't mind. Much.

Jim reflected he was kind of hoping for a lull in the mysteries that always seemed to find Trixie; at home in what one would think was a sleepy little town; on a farm in Iowa; hell, she couldn't even go to the airport to pick up friends without becoming involved in something. Something dangerous. He just…wanted it all to wait. Just a little.

"Hi Baby," he crossed the room and sat next to her. "Dishes are done." He reached out and tugged his curl.

"Are you mad at me, Jim?" Her voice was whisper-soft, blue eyes full of apprehension.

"No, baby, no," he hastened to assure her. "Why didn't you tell me about this earlier? I was kind of blindsided tonight."

Trixie bit her bottom lip, as red crept its way across her cheeks. "Umm, well. I kind of never opened the first invitation," she confessed. "The one that was sent to Crabapple Farm. I really did forget about it, there was so much preparation for the prom, graduation, getting married. Boom boom boom." She placed her hand on his arm and began drawing small circles there. "The new one came this morning, by messenger, when you went to the gym." She sighed.

Trixie went on to explain that the distinctive envelope triggered her memory of the unopened letter at the Farm. When she read the contents, she was astonished. The Locard Society wanted her! Trixie Belden Frayne, and she hadn't even started college, or had any kind of law enforcement position. It was simply unheard of.

"After the excitement passed, and oh, I wanted to tell you so much when you came home, I thought about Honey. What would she think? Gleeps, Jim, she was there with me every step of the way. Why me and not her? Would she consider this a slap in the face? What would this do to our agency?"

"So you needed to talk to Honey first," Jim added helpfully, understanding. "You wouldn't have accepted the invitation to check them out if Honey objected."

Trixie stared into the emerald eyes that haunted her dreams. "Right. I still don't know if I am going to accept. I need to see what they tell me, and you." She threw up her arms with typical Trixie energy. "I am starting college. I am newly married. I need to see what they expect of me. I want them to know," and she took a great gulp of air, "No matter how intriguing this offer may be, you come first, Jim, you always will."

Jim's eyes darkened at her tender words. "We were…distracted…several times during the rest of the day." His large hand slid up her arm and cupped her face.

"The best kind of distraction," Trixie murmured as she crawled into his lap.

"The very best kind," Jim agreed, his voice hoarse with desire as he lowered his lips to nip at hers. "The very best kind."

A/N: The fictional Locard Society is actually based on the real-life Vidocq Society, renowned for assisting law enforcement in solving cold cases. They are based in Philadelphia PA, and membership is very limited to the best! As always, my editor is the absolute best! Thank you Mylee, for having faith.


	3. Tabloid Trix Chapter 2

Tabloid Trix Chapter 2

_**15 Years Ago**_

_Her mother's voice came wafting up the stairs. "Jody, where's your brother?"_

_She rolled her eyes at her friend Lizbeth, and whispered to her. "Where does she think that little creep is? Kidnapped by aliens?" Pitching her voice louder, she responded with another eye-roll. "Probably up in the attic, Mom." Where he always was, with his current laptop and all the detritus of living. "I don't know what the little monster does all day up there," she whispered again to Liz._

_Giggling and covering her pretty mouth with her hand, Liz replied with an arched brow. "He's what, 12 or 13 now? You know what 12 and 13 year-old-boys do _all_ the time in locked rooms."_

"_Ewwww. Liz. Thank you for imprinting that charming picture on my brain forever. But I don't think so. He's probably up there cooking up some grand plot to take over the world." Jody sighed. She knew he was her brother, knew she was supposed to love him, but…she didn't. There was just something off about him; nothing she could actually put a finger on, but, it was there. He watched her and her friends with those strange eyes, assessing everything. Like he found them all peculiar specimens under a microscope. If she watched carefully, she could sometimes see him change from…from whatever he was and put on what she privately termed his human face. If you didn't know about the coldness underneath, all you saw was a polite, engaging young boy on the cusp of adolescence._

_Her mother either didn't see it or didn't want to see it. He was her golden boy genius; so special, so…singular. Her dad, on the other hand, took her aside when she was 13. Mom and the genius were out somewhere, probably getting his IQ tested again so she could brag to all her friends. Dad, his serious face on, sat her down on the flowered sofa in the living room, and he sat on the coffee table, holding her hands. _

_She was older now, her dad said, and smart. When she demurred, he qualified it. Maybe she didn't have all the intellectual smarts of her brother, but she had common sense. And most of the time, a good, healthy dose of common sense trumped all the book-learning in the world._

_And then they began talking. They talked until their voices gave out, long before her mother and brother returned. They talked about…him._

_At first, Jody thought it was going to be another parental monologue about her brother's accomplishments, his personality, his everything. But it wasn't. Sliding his eyes to each side of his face, as if he expected his wife and son to suddenly materialize and cut short this talk, he confessed to her._

_He thought…no, he knew, his son was a monster. He couldn't prove it, couldn't decipher a way to get the evidence he needed to get his son locked up. Locked up and the key thrown away. He wasn't smart enough._

_He knew Jody felt it too. _

_They talked and cried together that afternoon and forged an unbreakable bond to try to combat an unspeakable evil that was flourishing in their house. He warned her: Don't ever be alone with him. _

_She never was._

_Her brother was exactly where she thought he was: cocooned in the attic, surrounded by relics of the past. He heard the outside door slam shut; waited a bit and then switched back the curtain a smidgeon. Jody and her best friend Lizbeth were walking up the street, probably to Lizbeth's house. Even at this distance, he could see them laughing in the way teenage girls do. Jody said something to Lizbeth and they both glanced towards the attic window – as if they could see him watching them through the slit in the curtain. They giggled a bit more and continued away from him._

"_Just what do you think you're doing?" The well-loved voice came from the wall directly opposite what his mother fondly termed his office. "We already discussed this. They are _not _suitable."_

_Scrubbing his hand over his face, he turned to her, already knowing she was staring at him with those big blue unblinking eyes, and her mouth was pursed, either to kiss or pout. _

_Becky. _

_Still trapped in that coffin/box after all these years; joined by her sisters as determined by the now defunct American Beauty Collection. For the first two years, they were the hottest thing. Like all fads, it drew to an abrupt close, ceding the top toy title to a more manageable group of blonde bimbos called California Dream Girls. Studies showed that most of the children that were supposed to be delighted by the large size of the ABC dolls were in fact, afraid of them. ABC tried to fight back by reducing the size of the subsequent dolls, releasing a few more per year, but nothing was deader than a five-minute-ago fad. Four years after the multi-million dollar success, ABC was in bankruptcy and dolls were being sold for pennies at flea markets across the U.S._

_His mother persisted in purchasing all the dolls for Jody, even though Jody hated Becky with a passion and banished her to the attic when the first opportunity presented itself. They never put together the fact that after Becky was installed in her new resting place, _he _became enamored of the attic and its 'solitude.' His dad built shelves up there to showcase the truncated collection and Becky was number one. As she should be._

_He built his own little world up there, far away from the things downstairs and their constant yammering at him. The attic was a get-away, his world with Becky and his experiments. Heated in the winter, air-conditioned in the summer; it was perfect for them. For her._

"_They're too tall," she said. "It has to be perfect, darling." _

"_I was just looking." He walked over to her and slid his hand down her soft arm, placatingly before she worked herself up into a snit. If his knuckles brushed lightly against her breast, she didn't call him out on it. _

"_You have to be better prepared, more careful. Remember what happened last time."_

"_That was one time. A fluke." He turned away from her, angry. She always brought that up. The one time he was almost caught, and the first time he took a human life. He peeked back out of the curtain. Jody and Liz were out of sight now. He made a sound of pure frustration. _

"_She was too young, too small," Becky complained. He hated that strident tone. Hated being reminded of his failure. Hated when she started whining. He turned back to her, his beautiful Becky, and began to placate her in the only way he knew how._

_Mary Beth Roberts was only 4 years old when the nice boy who lived on the next block invited her to come of her yard and play. Her pretty brown ringlets, rosebud mouth and trusting big blue eyes revealed her excitement as she slipped her tiny hand into his._

_She was found in a wooded lot a week later, her brown ringlets shaved off and a grotesque wig in their place. Her small body was too decomposed to identify the method of murder. _

_And the medical examiner sorrowfully reported to the detective in charge that her pretty blue eyes, the ones that captivated and that looked out from all the Missing Child posters around town, were neatly excised._

**Present Day**

Paul Trent sat on the window ledge in the run-down apartment in New York City, smoking a cigarette and idly watching the half-lit red neon sign that said CHE P AP S FOR REN . Every damn night, that buzzing and crackling of the sign, not to mention the flashing redness of it, invaded his CHEAP APT FOR RENT.

It was driving him crazy.

He finished his smoke and flicked the butt down the alleyway. With luck, maybe it would start a fire in all the garbage down there, the firemen would come to douse it, and the alleyway would be clean for a few days. Then it would again be littered with syringes, garbage and low-class hookers and their johns using the alley for quick servicing needs.

Across town, those damn kids from Sleepyside were living it up in fancy apartments, while he lived down here with the dregs of society. Really, it just was not fair.

His whole life he dreamed of being Woodward and Bernstein, uncovering corruption at the highest levels, working for _The New York Times _or _The Washington Post._ Winning the Pulitzer Prize. He's be _somebody._

_The_ _Sleepyside Sun _ was supposed to be a stepping stone. Small town paper, a few minor scandals to unearth before moving on.

Except that Trixie Belden – oh, excuse me – Trixie Belden _Frayne -_ and that gang of hers lived there, and Sleepyside seemed to be a hotbed of criminal activity.

None of which _he_ unearthed in his time there. Instead, a bunch of teenagers ran circles around him, the local cops, and hell, even the Secret Service. It was damn frustrating to be scooped by kids, for god's sake.

He began to look into their little group more closely. Began to think it was an extremely amazing coincidence that two of the richest men in the country made their homes in a sleepy little village on the Hudson. Men like that, they made enemies. Had skeletons in their walk-in closets. Skeletons a crack investigative journalist could discover and publish. For the good of the _people_.

And hey, if it earned him a Pulitzer, he wouldn't say no.

He stood up, stretched, and leaned his wiry frame against the window casings. Outside, the rusted and crumbling fire escape tilted precariously. Across the way was a decrepit hotel, used by hookers whose johns wanted more than a quick alleyway encounter, and transients or desperate people really down on their luck. Or hiding from the law.

No view of the park for him.

The problem was, the more he dug down for tidbits about Wheeler/Hart International, or Matthew and Madeleine Wheeler; the more he investigated Edward and Sharon Lynch and E&S Inc., the more he realized there simply was no dirt. Nothing an investigative journalist could hang his hat on to write that one, important story that would make his career.

Who could blame him if he embellished, just a little? Everybody did it. Not everybody got caught at it. Of course, he was one of the lucky ones who did. The editor and the publisher of _The Sun_ called him into the office that day. He waltzed in, expecting a pat on the back, a pay raise and their effusive thanks.

His fingers clutched convulsively on the window frame, knuckles whitening, as he remembered that day. When he walked into the office, Melinda Bancroft, the publisher, and Ted Schoenfeld, Editor, were not smiling. In fact, they looked quite the opposite. Ms. Bancroft was dressed in a power suit – red with a plain white blouse and a small strand of pearls at her neck and her trademark sleek chignon. Ted was, well, Ted. A bit overweight, shirt sleeves rolled up, belt tightened under his belly, salt and pepper hair madly sticking up in all directions.

Melinda Bancroft invited him to take a seat in her cold voice. She sat in the power position, behind the battered desk, while Ted stood to her right. Paul's wide smile faltered a bit as he noted the carefully schooled expressions on their swiftly decided a show of bravado would win the day.

"_So, how did you like it? The exposé on Wheeler and Lynch? Great isn't it? Lot of digging to get that information, lots of legwork. But then, that's the life of an investigative reporter."_ He knew he was talking too much, but his nerves were getting the better of him. Why the hell didn't they say something? Anything?

As he faded to a stop, Melinda laced her fingers together on the top of the desk, and stared straight at him. Her cool grey eyes iced over. "It was a wonderfully written article, Paul," she began, her voice as chilly as her eyes. His smile began to overspread his face, but her next words stopped it as effectively as an open palm slap. _"If it was true."_

He opened his mouth to rebut her words, but nothing came out. How in god's name did they find out? It wasn't blatant or excessive. Just a little twist on words here and there. He was mindful of the legalities.

Ted's deep voice rumbled out of his barrel chest. He leaned a thick arm on the desk and got right in Paul's face. "Don't bother to deny it, Trent. Maybe we're just a small town paper, and maybe I'm not the editor of some fancy city newspaper, but I have enough brains to check the facts. Facts that you misrepresented in your little exposé."

"No, no, Ted, it wasn't like that," he began. But he knew. He knew it was exactly like that.

"Do you actually think we would publish something like that about two of the richest and most philanthropic members of our community without checking it out first?" Melinda spat at him. She sat back in her chair and tented her red-tipped fingers. Like the bloodied talons of some brightly crested bird of prey, she went in to complete the kill.

"You're a good reporter, Paul. Have a nice touch with words. Sleepyside isn't L.A. or New York City. You're looking for that big story, but you won't find it here." Her voice rose. "The thing I find most distasteful is that you wanted to compromise the integrity of _my_ paper and _my_ community to feed your obviously overactive ego. I can't have that. You're fired, Paul, effective immediately. I will not be providing a reference for you."

The bitch actually turned away from him. Dismissed him, as Ted muscled him out of the office and watched as he packed his things. The last thing he said was, "One day, you'll see my name in the _New York Times_. And you and that witch in there will have big regrets about this day, Ted. Wait and see. Just wait and see."

The red neon sign sputtered and buzzed, and brought him back to his new reality. A cheap flophouse in the City with a hot plate and mini-refrigerator that passed as a kitchen. A dozen roach motels set everywhere. A sagging bed he compulsively checked several times a day for any sign of bedbugs.

He sat on the bed. With no references, he had no real job. Nothing except being a stringer for that new gossip rag, _OMG!_. They had no problem with stretching the truth a bit. Hell, they had no problem printing total and complete lies. If a celebrity complained or threatened a lawsuit, there was a retraction printed on the next to the last page in the tiniest print imaginable. It always blamed the unnamed sources for the bad info.

He'd never win his Pulitzer now. But revenge could be sweet, he ruminated. He knew Wheeler and Lynch were behind his firing. All those rich people, they all stuck together. But he'd get back at them in their most vulnerable place.

He walked a few strides around the apartment, giggling. The cracked and faded walls were covered with photographs. His giggle mutated into a full-blown laugh.

He'd get back at them, all right. Using _OMG!_ as his delivery, and Bob-Whites as his avenging sword.

A/N: As always, Thanks to my lovely and talented editor, Mylee!


	4. Tabloid Trix Chapter 3

Tabloid Trix Chapter 3

Trixie and Jim blinked in the sudden assault of sunlight after the dim lighting of the NYC subway system. They had a couple of short city blocks to walk before they reached their destination: the elegant, restored brownstone that was the headquarters of the Locard Society. Around them, the incessant traffic flowed in fits and starts; impatient taxi drivers wove in and out of the congestion with nonchalant courage. Quirky Village shops and even quirkier residents failed to catch their attention.

She had a death grip on his hand, betraying her nerves. His Trixie. Nervous. Well, he guessed he might be too, if he was meeting the holy grail of educators. What Jim was, was curious. Who were these men who, never meeting his wife, wanted to bestow one of law enforcement's most coveted accolades on her? Yup. He had lots of questions, and he needed answers.

As they approached the address, Trixie gasped audibly and pulled him over to the side. "I'm really nervous, Jim," she admitted, rose color heightening the beauty of her face. "I mean, I'm just plain old Trixie Frayne from Sleepyside, New York."

Grinning down into her pale face, Jim responded. "There's absolutely nothing plain about you, Trixie Frayne from Sleepyside, New York. And if I was a couple of the foremost detectives in the world, I'd certainly want to meet the girl who started solving mysteries at the age of 13. You're special Trix."

"No I'm not," she disagreed. "I'm just me." Jim marveled at his wife. She had not one ounce of vanity in her. Solving complex mysteries was as natural as breathing to her; something that fascinating brain underneath all those curls computed almost automatically.

"Relax, baby. I'm here with you. You don't have to make any decisions today." He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, that simple gesture calming the worst of her nerves. Jim was right. It wasn't like she was joining a cult or something. Dr. Brietling and Detective Jensen were mere mortals, the same as she.

Jim tugged her along past the next few brownstones until they stood in front of the one with the discreet bronze plaque set into the stone. _The Locard Society._ A small emblem was underneath: an L with a magnifying glass crossing through the joint with the circle at the top of the L. Understated, and apropos.

Pasting a tremulous smile on her face, Trixie climbed the few steps to the leaded glass door, and pressed the discreet bronze bell on the side. Jim stood closely behind her, his large, warm hand resting comfortably on the small of her back, grounding her.

A few seconds later, an older woman dressed in a dove gray suit opened the door. Her salt and pepper hair was worn in a chic French twist and tasteful pearl earrings adorned her ears. "Mrs. Frayne?" she asked, her voice smooth and welcoming. At Trixie's nod, she continued. "Dr. Breitling and Detective Jensen are waiting for you in the Doctor's main office." Her brown eyes twinkled behind rimless glasses. "And you must be Mr. Frayne. I'm Anna Ciccone, Dr. Breitling's assistant and house manager. Please, follow me." She turned smartly on low-heeled pumps and didn't look back to see if they were following. She knew they would be.

**At Cop College…**

Luke Masse was reading the files of the incoming freshman class. He sighed heavily and switched to the next file on the computer in his rather stuffy office. So far, there were two or three files that represented possible outstanding students. The rest were what he privately dubbed The CSI Effect. Kids who grew up watching the television shows that had little to do with reality, and thought they were going to be just like the characters they saw every week.

Until they saw their first dead body, or realized that forensic crime scene investigators do not question perps and merely collect evidence. A lot of the time, the evidence was shipped to faceless labs that carried out the examination, and not some multi-million dollar police lab. Luke snorted. Yeah, and that happens. Most cities and towns had nowhere near the budget for mass spectrometers and DNA analysis. Some of the police departments were barely in the computer age.

He clicked on the next file. Madeleine Wheeler. The student ID picture showed a very pretty honey blonde girl. _Wheeler._ Now where did he hear that name? The short bio indicated she hailed from a small town in New York called Sleepyside. Her parents were Matthew and Madeleine Wheeler, also of Sleepyside and New York City. One brother, James Frayne. He idly wondered if Frayne was from a previous marriage of either of her parents.

Then it hit him. The name sounded so familiar because he passed the Wheeler Building almost every day in Manhattan. He groaned aloud and muttered. "Great. Just what I need, some debutante who thinks she wants to dabble in criminal justice." He ran a restless hand through is longish brown hair. Looking at her career goals, he positively sneered. "Oh come on, little rich girl. A detective agency with your best friend? Oh yeah." He gave her two weeks at the most before she pulled out of college and went to Brown or Smith or one of those fancy-dancy society schools.

The next picture was of a beautiful, brightly blonde girl, curly spirals reaching her shoulders. Trixie Belden…no wait…there was a name change. Trixie Belden _Frayne_. A copy of a marriage certificate, proving a very recent marriage of Beatrix Belden of Sleepyside, New York, to one James Winthrop Frayne II, also of Sleepyside. Bride, 18, groom 20. She was offered a full, four year scholarship, books tuition, everything. Yet she married one of the heirs to the Wheeler fortune. Luke grimaced. A hasty marriage…well, it wouldn't be the first time he had a pregnant student in class. And if she married money, why the hell was she using up a scholarship a more deserving student could use?

Her career goal? A detective agency with her best friend. Obviously, the Wheeler heiress. Wow. This little gold-digger certainly knew how to pick her friends and lovers. He clicked on the link to her scholarship, but amazingly, was not able to access any information about it. It was privately funded and the donors wished to remain anonymous. Yeah. Right.

He read a little further into her file and began to have grave doubts about the Admissions Committee. Were they really checking out the students they admitted? This girl supposedly solved serious mysteries local law enforcement couldn't. Come on! She lived in this podunk town with undoubtedly one red light and two cops, one of whom was probably named Barney Fife.

He Googled her name, and was surprised when it actually did bring up a number of articles. Most were written in the breathless prose of a small-town newspaper, and had to do with finding Jim Frayne, or being kidnapped. So much for solving mysteries.

Of course, if he bothered to read further, he may have gotten an entirely different picture. But Professor Luke Masse was an impatient man and dismissed the links with a shake of his head. He stood up, medium height and slender as a greyhound, and stretched. He'd bet his damn tenure that Trixie Frayne and her society friend would not last out two weeks. If there was one thing he hated was dilettantes. He had enough of that on the force, when he was out in L.A.

It never occurred to him that he was profiling.

**At the Locard Society…**

Trixie and Jim followed Anna Ciccone through the elegantly appointed house to a large, sunny room overlooking a small courtyard. Two sets of French doors opened to the courtyard, which was paved in cobblestones and fenced in, affording complete privacy. Several varieties of roses grew along the fences, and there were a few small tables with comfortable chairs and gaily colored market umbrellas in the closed position. It was a lovely space that invited the weary to sit down a while and just relax.

The room itself was as elegant as the areas they passed through. One wall was nothing but floor to ceiling bookshelves, all the dust jackets creating a bright medley. To one side was a rolling ladder. Directly in front was a massive desk with an emerald bankers' light, and the in-box was piled high with manila folders. A state of the art computer sat silently to one side.

Trixie turned her attention to the two men standing by what she privately termed the conversation area. There was a large fieldstone fireplace with a slate mantle with several awards showcased on it. A leather couch stood to one side of the fireplace, and several leather chairs to the other. In between was a coffee table with a few more folders discreetly fanned out.

Dr. William Breitling was a pale, gaunt man of average height. His quick, faded blue eyes took the measure of the Fraynes as much as they of him. He sported a thin mustache above his upper lip, as snow white as the hair on his head. He wore an Italian silk suit that must have been tailored specifically for him.

Detective Stephen Jensen stood deferentially to one side, much as Robin would do to Batman. His head was completely shaven, his eyes deep and dark. Unlike Dr. Brietling, Jensen wore a pair of pressed blue jeans and a t-shirt that touted Jamaica! The two men made a marked contrast; the pale, white-haired doctor and the dark-skinned taller man.

Trixie was startled out of her perusal by the soft click of the door as Ms. Ciccone left the room. She waited a beat, and then took the reins of the conversation.

"Good Afternoon, gentlemen. I'm Trixie Belden Frayne and this is my husband, Jim." She extended one small hand to Dr. Breitling, and he covered it immediately with his own.

His lips tilted up at the corners. _This one is a take-charge spitfire, no matter how delicately beautiful she looks._ His opinion of her rose several more degrees. "Will Breitling," he said, grasping her hand firmly. "Thank you for coming, Mrs. Frayne."

He passed his hand to Jim, as Stephen Jensen took her hand. His plummy British accent made the simple introduction sound like a presentation to the Queen. "Mr. Frayne, why don't you come with me to my office, while Will talks to your wife. I'm sure you both have many questions."

Jim hesitated, unsure, until he received the high sign from Trixie. Reluctantly, he followed the celebrated detective out of the room.

Dr. Brietling motioned to one of the leather chairs. "Please sit down, Mrs. Frayne," he began.

"Trixie, please." She settled herself in the comfortable worn leather.

"Thank you. Please, call me Will." The faded blue eyes twinkled into sapphire blue ones. He almost laughed out loud as she began to quietly fidget. _The best ones are always moving a mile a minute_ he thought gleefully. "I'm sure you did a lot of research on our little society before coming here."

Trixie tapped her fingers against her thigh. She did do a lot of research. Computers were a wonderful modern convenience. But all she read did not answer the big question in her mind: why her?

She took a deep gulp of air, and very Trixie-like, jumped in with both feet forward. "Why on earth would your society want _me_ for a member?"

**In Detective Jensen's Office…**

Stephen Jensen's office was a much smaller space than Dr. Brietling's, but just as comfortably furnished. Rather than a wall of books, there were banks of mahogany filing cabinets behind the desk. Another computer awaited someone to please, stop the bouncing Windows logo and do some work.

Jensen gestured to a chair, and sat directly across from Jim in another one. "Thanks for coming, Mr. Frayne. I'm sure you have many, many questions. While Will is interviewing your wife, let's see if we can allay some of your concerns."

Jim glanced towards the door, still a bit uneasy about abandoning Trixie. Jensen noted his concern and respected him for it. "Will doesn't bite," he deadpanned. "At least not _prospective_ members." He smiled widely.

Jim was surprised into a short bark of laughter. "Well, I didn't think he'd bite…but _Trixie_ may," he responded in kind, his green gaze lighting.

This time it was Jensen who laughed. "I'll wager that you are wondering why on earth the Locard Society would offer a membership…no disrespect intended towards your wife…to an 18-year-old non-professional."

"The thought had crossed our minds," Jim responded dryly.

Jensen sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. How to approach this… "Why did you marry her at such a young age?" he threw the question out at Jim, completely flummoxing him. "You could have waited. Established yourselves. Sown a few wild oats." Of course, Jensen knew exactly why Jim married Trixie.

Jim's eyes were emerald green slits. "Although I don't think it's any of your business, I married Trixie because I love her and she loves me. We'll support each other, help each other. And by the way," he added with a disdainful snort, "I never wanted to sow any wild oats." Any oat sowing he ever wanted to do was centered on one effervescent blonde.

Jensen leaned forward again, his elbows on his knees and his hands dangling. "I think love is only part of the reason, Mr. Frayne," he stated in his best bad cop voice. "You were a good distance away from her, and she is a beautiful, intelligent woman. You can't tell me that a part of the reason you whisked her off was that you were afraid someone else would get to her first."

Red spots of color made an unwelcome appearance on Jim's countenance. He was trying very, very hard not to unleash his temper. "Again, what relevance does this have to the Locard society and their invitation?" he persisted. His long, restless fingers drummed a beat into the arm of the chair.

"Because we have similar feelings about Trixie."

The bald statement in the Queen's English alerted Jim to the fact he was dealing with some seriously disturbed individuals. Perhaps dealing with all the crimes and criminals and dregs of society had finally warped their minds. Feeling as if he was trapped in some bad horror movie where Jensen would rip off his mask and expose himself as a flesh-eating zombie or alien intent on inhabiting his body, Jim tensed his muscles and looked for the nearest escape to Trixie.

_Damn._ Frayne was looking at him like he grew two heads. He supposed his analogy fell flat in a very big way. Sighing, he began to backtrack. "I didn't mean we love her," he began, with a note of exasperation in his voice.

"Oh, no," Jim said with a placating tone. One that he would have used on an escaped mental patient. Calm, quiet. "No, of course not." His best bet was to dash for the French doors and into the courtyard. He could then grab Trix and they could hightail it out of there.

"We're not crazy, Jim." _Isn't that what all the crazy people always said in the movies, right before they revealed what a psychopath they were. _"God, I'm making a mull of this. If you'll just hear me out," Jensen pleaded.

"Okay." While one part of him was keeping an eye on the man, the other was rapidly trying to execute an escape.

"Okay." Jensen ran a dark hand over his gleaming scalp. "When…when you married Trixie, I'm sure you did it for love. Just as I am sure that one little part of you wanted to sew her up with your name, your brand so to speak. The things you wanted to teach her you didn't want anyone else to. You knew who she was, who you are and you wanted the best."

"Yeah." Jim decided to stick to one word answers. It seemed the best course. Who knew what might set Jensen off? He probably had a gun, more than one.

"Trixie…Trixie is something special, Jim." Jensen spoke quickly, wanting to get that wary expression off Jim's face. "The type of instincts she has, her skill at solving mysteries, that comes along only once in a very, very long while. To think that was centered in a 13-year-old child is extraordinary. After Chief Oglivie brought your little group, and specifically Trixie and your sister Honey, to our attention, we did some in-depth research. And we were astonished."

Jensen noted that Jim relaxed his tense posture, just a smidgen. He hoped a small ray of illumination was getting through that thick red head. "Will and I kept tabs on the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency and you know what? They just got better. Your wife, she has all that raw talent. Brilliant. Intuitive. And your sister is no slouch either."

"I know that," Jim said slowly. He still did not grasp the point Jensen was trying to make.

"Okay. Let's posit a scenario. Trixie and Honey finish college. Then what? Open up an agency? Neither one of them will have the practical experience that demands. I don't think Trixie's dream is for her and Honey to sit surveillance on cheating spouses. Yet, without practical experience, that is exactly what they would be doing."

Jim gave a non-committal grunt. He and Trixie had been discussing this very thing just a few days ago.

"Even if they joined the FBI, or a local police force or even Interpol or Scotland Yard, they would still only have an FBI method of solving a crime, or a Scotland Yard method of solving a crime. Not to say their methods are bad; after all I worked for two of those agencies. All agencies get bogged down in bureaucratic nonsense, even the best. But what if Trixie had access to learning across the board, all agencies, the best of the best way to solve a crime? To interact with law enforcement professionals, experts in their fields, from all over the world? Wouldn't that be something?"

Jim had to agree. It sure would. He nodded faintly.

"That's what Locard can provide. Your…Trixie," Jensen rushed on. He had to make the man in front of him understand. "Your wife…Jim, she's the stuff legends are made of. She needs us as much as we need her."

Now_that_ perked his ears up. Why would the Locard Society need her? Jim shifted uncomfortably in his seat. What did that statement mean, need her. He raised a russet eyebrow. He may not be a celebrated detective, but he was going to get some damn answers to his questions right now.

**Back in Dr. Brietling's Office…**

Trixie's direct question brought forth a deep rumble of laughter from the older man, and ruddiness to his pale complexion. "You're very direct, aren't you?" he twinkled at her.

She bit her lip and the hated rose bloomed across her cheeks. "Well, I have been accused of being tactless," she admitted with a small smile.

"And pushy, and nosy and too curious for your own good. Well, Mrs. Trixie Frayne, pushiness and nosiness and sometimes even a lack of tact bode well for a detective. Insatiable curosity? Check. Doggedness? Check. Stubborness? Well that one can cut both ways."

"It still doesn't explain why you want me," Trixie persisted, her fingers drawing circles on her thighs.

"Oh, my dear, it's so very simple. You have a gift. A divine gift, one might say. Your intriguing brain is wired to solve mysteries, and you are very, very good at it…a raw talent, to be sure. Both Stephen and I want a chance to help you develop that talent unencumbered by bureaucratic nonsense or territorial disputes. Beyond parochial and entrenched ideas about crime solving. You'll have access here to the greatest minds in the world of criminology. Stephen and I have been looking for someone like you for a very long time."

"A student," Trixie replied astutely.

"A student, a colleague, and a teacher. We all accept these roles in Locard. I'm sure I don't have to enumerate the advantages of joining the society. But I do want to make the disadvantages very clear." Will leaned his thin body forward, his face very serious. "You're very young. Although you have been involved in, shall we say, detective-ing since you were 13, there is so much you haven't been exposed to. And you'll see it, here at Locard. You'll hear it here. And Stephen and I will take you into the depths of depravity. It's not for the faint of heart."

"I'm stronger than I look," Trixie began.

"I'm not so much talking about physical strength as strength up here," Dr. Breitling tapped his skull. He sighed. "We actually thought long and hard before we offered this to you. You're so young, and what we are asking you is to descend into hell, willingly. At the meetings, you will see case files of the most abominable actions one human being can inflict on another. Murder most foul. Child abuse. Charred bodies. Dismemberments. Things you could never imagine. Human beings gutted like cattle. And so much blood, sometimes you feel like you are drowning in it." Brietling wiped a hand over his face. "You never get used to it. The good ones, they want to stand for the victim. Get justice. And we do. But the images never go away."

"So how do you cope?" Trixie wanted to know. It was true; she and Honey had never seen a dead body, were never involved in a case where there was an actual murder. Never saw the types of horror being described.

"Partly gallows humor…we meet every third Thursday every other month. We have a nice dinner, schmooze, and then onto the pictures that make you want to lose it. The dinner I mean. Partly strength of will. And mostly seeing the look on the faces of the families of the victims. Families who never thought they would see justice for their loved ones. Or police officials who worked cases for years and never thought they'd live to see them closed."

"My wife is a warrior." Jim and Stephen Jensen had entered the room on silent feet. Jim crossed over to Trixie, his emerald eyes alight with that special look reserved just for her. Trixie peeked up at him, a similar light shining in her eyes for all to see.

Will Brietling's faded blue gaze eyes met the black gaze of Stephen Jensen. The silent communication between them, borne of a long friendship and innate understanding needed no words. _She is his Achilles' heel, and he is hers. _Will quirked his bushy white eyebrow. Steve wasn't supposed to be back yet. A slight shrug of the shoulders and a roll of the eyes meant Steve suffered again from foot-in-mouth disease.

As Jim sat next to Trixie, Dr. Brietling began again. "Again, Trixie, Jim, we meet the third Thursday every other month. We have a lovely dinner, mingle a while, and then the packets of the night's case are disseminated. Depending on the agency presenting the case, we may have visuals. There are always one or two representatives of the agency who brought the case to our attention. They present the salient facts to date, and answer questions. Members who cannot attend the meeting – and we have members all over the world – are conferenced in by video link. Packets are emailed to them in advance of the meeting. And then," he smiled widely, "We brainstorm."

"You mentioned a paid internship in your letter," Trixie stated. "What would that entail?"

Jensen took up the slack on that one. "A portion of your time would be devoted to sorting through the cases we get asked to review. I think this triage would be helpful in your training. The larger portion of your time would be spent with either me or Will or both of us. Practical training and doing such things as attending crime scenes and autopsies. And warrior or not," Jensen looked meaningfully at Jim, "We have a highly trained and discreet psychologist to assist Trixie if she has any um, adverse reactions."

Trixie chewed on her lower lip, a sure sign of agitation. The membership, the training, even the blood and gore were the stuff she dreamt about ever since she was a child. She was born to do this, she knew deep in her bones. And yet…there were reservations. She was just starting college. She was newly married. She didn't want every second of her time accounted for. Jim, ever attuned to her moods, gently stroked her arm.

"What is it Trix?" She turned her wide blue eyes on him, a mixture of excitement and trepidation. How often had he seen just that same expression as they started some new adventure? He bit back an inward sigh. It wasn't that he didn't understand the great honors being dangled her way. He did. He was so proud of her. All Jim wanted was a, well, a breather. He was fully aware that his future included more adventures, danger and excitement than any one man should have to consider. He accepted that little gem a long time ago, when he realized that all the lectures in the world couldn't stop Trixie. His large hand scrubbed unconsciously at his heart. All he wanted was more time with his soulmate before she went adventuring with his sister.

Trixie, whose boundless energy had been tightly leashed up until then, stood up and began pacing the room. Wiping her hands on her thighs as she measured her steps, she composed her thoughts while the three men in the room watched her, waiting. At last, she turned to them and began to speak.

"Will, Stephen, you are offering me the most absolutely amazing opportunity I have ever been privileged to receive – other than my marriage proposal," she twinkled that part at Jim. "Ever since I could remember, I wanted to catch the bad guys. It's in my DNA." She paused. "As much as I love doing that, there's one thing I love more. And he's sitting right on the couch over there." Her sapphire eyes, filled with the most profound feeling, sought out the emerald ones she loved so well.

"I'm just starting school, and I am a newlywed. I need to know I will have the time to devote to college, and more importantly, the time to devote to my husband. Otherwise," and she took a deep breath and plunged in, "I will have to decline."

Jim sucked in a breath, deeply moved by Trixie's admission. His intense gaze deepened, and oh, how he wished they were alone. Then he could prove to her how much, how strong and unwavering was his love for her. She would willingly give up the chance of lifetime because he was the most important thing to her. _He_ was. James Winthrop Frayne II, a heart still healing after all these years, discovered that indeed, even a scarred and battered heart like his was, could stretch as wide as the Crabapple Farm walls.

"We will definitely work around your schedule, Trixie. We'll start out slowly, see how much you can manage without feeling overwhelmed. We have several job perks too, to sweeten our offer," Will hastened to assure her. "We will provide you with a secure laptop to work from home on those days when you want to, inclement weather or if we're out of town and you don't want to come into the office. Many of the letters we receive requesting case review arrive at our general email box. We will also provide a car to pick you up and bring you here and back home. You'll get keys and the security code for the office. And a very nice salary, even if I do say so." He named a figure that had both Trixie and Jim gasping. "Oh, you'll earn that and more, Mrs. Frayne," he chuckled.

Jim asked a question that was bothering him about this whole operation. "Dr. Brietling, how do you fund all this? I mean the Locard Society is non-profit, right?"

"Very good question, Jim." Stephen Jensen took the lead on this one, hoping to make amends for his earlier bout of inarticulation. "We are a non-profit organization. We receive a portion of our funds from generous donors who believe in our cause. Both Will and I accept outside paid consultations and speaking engagements and a portion of the fees we charge goes back to the Locard coffers."

Will took up the explanation. "I also have old family money," he admitted with only a small grimace. "I choose to use a portion of that to fund Locard. In fact, this is my home when I am in New York." His hands swept the room. "And your employment is actually being funded by a grant I made to the society." He looked at Stephen and nodded his head towards the door. "Let's give the Fraynes a few minutes alone."

Trixie watched the men leave and turned to Jim with troubled eyes. Ever aware of her moods, he walked over to her and took both of her hands in his. Rubbing small circles on the backs of them, he leaned over and brushed her soft lips with his. "Thank you, baby."

"For what?" Her pretty blue eyes were slightly dazed, as they were every time he kissed her. It just made him want to kiss her more.

"For being you. For loving me. For my life." He punctuated each statement with a kiss. He leaned his forehead against hers. "You should accept, Trix. It's such an honor. If it gets to be too much, we can always re-evaluate." How could he deny her this chance? After all, it's not like she and Honey would be out there chasing criminals and getting kidnapped, nearly drowned or held at gunpoint.

Her sapphire eyes, the ones that still haunted his dreams, sparkled with excitement. "Really, Jim? Honestly, you won't mind?" He could feel the effervescence begin to thrum through her body.

"Nope. Go for it Trix."

Trixie stood on her toes and peppered his face with kisses, until she landed on his lips again. The kiss was hot, passionate and left them both breathless and wanting more. "Why'd you have to be so tall?" she moaned. "I always get a crick in my neck looking up."

His lopsided, easy grin spread across his face. "Why'd you have to be so…petite?" he countered. "My lower back hurts from bending over."

There was a discreet knock at the door, a pause while the twosome straightened their rumpled clothes, and the two men entered the room with slight trepidation. They knew that Trixie's acceptance hinged on the opinion of her husband. Stephen enlightened Will about his rather garbled talk with Jim earlier. He hoped that first impressions were not lasting ones. Otherwise, Jim Frayne must be thinking he was a freakin' idiot.

Trixie could not contain herself, and the dazzling smile told them all before she opened her mouth. "Gentlemen, I am pleased to accept your offer, for everything. Membership, training and employment." Although her tone was formal, her cheeks were flushed and eyes dancing.

"Wonderful! Just wonderful! Welcome to the Locard Society, Trixie." Will crossed the room to his desk as Trixie and Jim shook hands with Stephen. He rummaged through a drawer and brought out a small jewelers' box. "Jim, will you do the honors?" Inside was a gold tack pin in the shape of an L with a magnifying glass – the logo of the Locard Society. "This pin identifies you as a member of the society," Will explained, as Jim was attaching it to Trixie's blouse. "Always wear it. It is respected by law enforcement throughout the world." He gravely shook Trixie's hand. She had not disappointed them. She might look like a delicate piece of porcelain china, but inside that head full of blonde spirals was a brain that would certainly spell doom for the criminal element.

"So, when do I start?" She flushed a charming, vibrant red. Now that the dance was over, she wanted to dig in.

"I believe school starts tomorrow for freshman at John Jay," Stephen said. "Let's give you some time to get used to the college day, and you can get a copy of your class schedule to us. Say, tentatively next Monday. We'll have your key and business cards ready by then."

"Business cards?" Jim's russet eyebrows crawled into that wave of red hair he could never tame.

"Of course," Will replied, in a dead-on impersonation of the society dialect known as Larchmont Lockjaw. "She's Locard now."

**Back at Paul Trent's Apartment…**

The disgraced reporter was sitting in his bathroom, intestines cramping as badly as he imagined labor pains to be. Tomorrow was the big day. A meeting with _OMG!_ to see if his idea for the article that would begin the campaign of revenge he had devised would be published. It had to be, he thought. It just had to be.

**Somewhere in the United States…**

The woman was softly sobbing, her tears soaking the tight blindfold, her nose dripping down her face. Her hands and feet were tightly bound, and she had been alone here – wherever here was – for what seemed like a long time.

She wouldn't be a victim. She _wouldn't_. She wiped her nose on her shrugged shoulder and began to listen, actually feel the ground where she lay trussed, and smell the unique combination of scents. If she got out of this, no, _when_ she got out of this, the police would need all the information possible to find the animal who was doing this to her.

The ground was hard, like concrete, but it was a bit crumbly. Like it was old and maybe falling to ruin. The stale air smelled of motor oil and gasoline and that sort of metallic odor that always seemed to permeate gas stations. There were absolutely no sounds at all, except the dim tweeting of birds occasionally. She must be in an abandoned gas station.

Her head felt funny. Kind of tight and hot. She realized as she wiped her nose again that she was wearing some kind of a long, cheap wig. Probably so people couldn't recognize her. What she didn't understand is what the hell she was doing there.

She was a student, for God's sake, living on grants, scholarships, the money her parents could spare her and the part-time job as a bartender at McTrendy's. Nobody enough to pay any sort of a ransom for her. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity? If she could just talk to her captor, she could explain. She wouldn't press charges.

That niggling voice inside her head decided to make itself felt. _What if he doesn't want a ransom, Donna? Guy kidnaps girl, do the math._

"No! Stop it!" her voice was hoarse, unlike her usual soft tones. He hadn't…done anything else to her yet. He could have, when she was unconscious and couldn't fight back. Casting her mind back, the last thing she remembered with any clarity was walking to her car at night after her shift at McTrendy's. One of the regulars bought her a Coke right before close. She almost forgot about it, but saw it still sitting on the bar and gulped it down. Then she walked to her car, calling a good night to a couple co-workers.

That's when everything started to get fuzzy. She fumbled her keys out of her pocket, dropped them. As she picked them up, a wave of dizziness swept over her. She straightened up and leaned heavily against the car, the keys suddenly weighing a ton as they slid again to the asphalt.

Then strong arms, holding her up, helping her walk, and a decidedly masculine voice that sounded like it had a smile in it.. "…wife…a little tipsy."

Then she was bundled in a car, not her own, and the last thing she heard before she spun into darkness was, "It'll be okay, Becky. It'll be okay."

And the last thing she thought, but could not pass through her suddenly slack mouth was _Who is Becky?_

_A/N - Gracias to my perfectly perfect editor, Mylee for her critical eye and encouragement!_


	5. Chapter 5

Tabloid Trix Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, and ain't makin' a cent

"I wonder how Trix and Jim are doing at their meeting," Di said quietly, painting her toenails a really spectacular shade of purple. Life was good since somebody invented toe spacers. She briefly looked over at Honey and her chosen color of soft pink. God, why would anyone choose pink when there were just so many terrific shades of purple?

Adding the last slash of pink to her little toe, Honey looked at Di, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "Trixie is nervous; I know that. I would imagine my brother is well, pretty knotted up about the whole thing."

"Re-ally? Why would that be? It's supposed be a big deal, this Locaro Society, right?" Di could not fathom why Jim would have any problems with Trixie's invitation.

"_Locard_. And you should know how overprotective my brother is of his new wife," she added sarcastically. "If you think he was bad when he was merely giving her fond looks, he probably wraps her in bubble wrap every night so she doesn't hurt herself if she falls out of bed."

The mental picture of Trixie carefully packaged in reams of bubble wrap, and rolled into bed by an overly solicitous Jim, made her laugh so hard she ended up painting the tip of her toe instead of the nail. "And then he gets the pleasure of popping all the bubbles every morning!" Di was overcome with giggles again. "Pop, pop, pop. Strip bubble popping!"

"Oh, I don't think those two need any kinky assistance in _that_ department." Honey arched a brow. "It's a wonder neither of them spontaneously combusts in the presence of the other."

Di capped her polish and crossed her arms over her knees, giving her toes one more critical glance. School started tomorrow, and she knew her courses would be challenging and satisfying. With her Art History/Art major, she could make the decision to go into teaching or get a job in a museum, or even graphic design. Andy Warhol himself started out as an illustrator for newspaper ads. The possibilities were endless as her happy future stretched out in front of her. Hopefully, with a blonde-haired Belden at her side, and she didn't mean Bobby!

"How do you feel about this, Honey? I mean, you and Trix are partners, you know." She didn't believe for one moment that Honey had it in her to be anything other than thrilled, but you never know. Di and Honey had discussed the state of their relationships with the Belden men too many times to count over the years, and the lack of either Jim or Trixie making a move on the other. They both agreed that they would probably be married and settled before Trixie even got as far as dating Jim. Then, in the space of a few short weeks, a handsome threat by the name of Aidan McCourt arrived, Jim finally made his move. And what a move it was! Di still sighed over the kiss in the Sleepyside High School parking lot that she and Honey witnessed. Then _wham_; no time for mere dating. A ring, a proposal, a prom and a marriage in the space of a few dizzying weeks. And now the Locard Society. Where did all that leave Honey?

Honey leaned back against the sofa and blew out a breath. "Brian asked me the exact same thing yesterday. I won't deny there's this tiny, little part of me that wishes it was me." She twirled a piece of honey gold hair over her index finger. "But you know what? It was always Trix leading us on and finding mysteries. As much as I loved our adventures, and I did, even the scary parts, she was always the one miles ahead of the rest of us. So, to answer your question, nope, I'm just thrilled for her."

Honey _had_ thought deeply about it. Had examined her feelings thoroughly. She was proud of her best friend. As she told Brian yesterday, it would only bode well for their agency. The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency. How often had she and Trixie said those words to each other growing up? And now, it would be the _Frayne_ –Wheeler Detective Agency. Maybe someday to be the Frayne – _Belden_ Detective Agency.

_Brian. _Honey plopped her legs on the battered coffee table and scrutinized her newly painted digits. She and Brian began dating when she turned 17 and the relationship had quickly turned physical. As an aspiring physician, Brian needed to put in long hours at school; in study; and in various internships that were offered to him over the years. He never hesitated to make her feel special and loved in the limited time they had together.

Until his sister married her brother.

She, of course, rhapsodized about the romance of it all. How handsome Jim was, how deep his love for Trixie. Imagine getting married right out of high school! She never thought Jim had it in him to be so overtly romantic, especially since snails mated faster than her brother making a move on Trix.

And then Brian began, in his quiet manner, to change the subject every time she brought it up. There was, of course, the ick factor. However, it wasn't like they were analyzing Trixie and Jim's sex life. It was just fun and romantic and…

Di broke into Honey's rambling internal monologue. "Has, um, has Brian been acting funny since the wedding? Not funny funny, but _funny."_

Honey scrunched up her nose. "What do you mean by funny?"

Bringing her jeweled amethyst gaze to Honey's topaz one, Di endeavored to explain. "I dunno. I was all excited about the wedding and being a bridesmaid and all. The whole adventure of it all, the romance. Who would think the most romantic thing I ever heard of belonged to two of my best friends? But almost every time I brought it up with Mart, he began to act all weird and change the subject. One time in Wimpy's he actually shoved a french-fry towards my mouth to shut me up."

Honey's eyes widened. "I hope you whacked him one upside the head."

"No, I just gave him the _look_," Di replied airily. "He spent the rest of the night trying to make it up to me." And what a great make-up it was, she sighed.

"So, let's see what we have here. Jim making grand romantic gestures for Trixie. They work. Instead of just going to the prom like normal young adults, they decide to one-up everyone and get married. Jim proposes and gives her the kiss in front of the whole school that apparently caused grown women to weep. We spend weeks immersed in prom, graduation and wedding plans. And Mart and Brian begin to slowly, I don't know, distance themselves from us." Honey's eyes popped wide open. "Oh my god!" She stood up and tried to angrily pace the room. A good bit of the dramatic effect was lost as she teetered on her heels, her freshly painted toes and toe spacers held up in the air. Not to mention the sleep tank top and shorts with the gamboling pink sheep. She pivoted and turned to Di, her eyes flashing. "_They_ think we are trying to pressure them to marry us!"

**In a taxi in NYC…**

Trixie gently fingered the pin Jim so proudly attached to her blouse at the Locard Society headquarters, and stared out the window at the incessant traffic and scads of people scurrying through the streets. It was almost too much.

Her right hand was enfolded in Jim's long fingers, his simple touch grounding her and preventing an excess of adrenaline. It was funny how they complemented each other. She had a tendency to become overly emotional, be it excitement or anger. He was more solid and logical. He helped her even out her moods, and she helped him become less inhibited. God, how she loved him.

Jim, rather than being entranced by the City sights, was watching the play of light through Trixie's long, blonde spirals. The late day sun shining through the dirty windows highlighted all the different shades that made up those soft curls he loved to tug on. Those intense green eyes were completely focused on his wife.

There it was. That word again. _Wife_. He never tired of saying it, out loud and in his deepest, innermost thoughts. She was amazing, this complex woman who owned his heart from the moment she challenged him in his own house. So strong, yet so delicate. A gorgeous woman without an ounce of vanity in her; in fact, just the opposite. She never had any idea of the covetous looks she received from other men. And Trixie loved _him_. He still didn't understand why. He looked in the bathroom mirror, at all the freckles and red hair and didn't see anything special. Yet she still greeted him with the breathy "Hello handsome" that always made him a little dizzy with desire and brought a shine to his heart.

And when she declared back in Dr. Brietling's office that she'd decline their offer because of him, because she loved him best, that little hole in his heart completely closed over. He'd always miss his biological parents. But _she_ was his family now, and the children they would create together in the future. It was all worth it, every bit of happiness, every bit of suffering, because it led him to her. To them.

He reached up with his free hand and gently wrapped a long spiral around his finger, giving a slight tug and watching it bounce back. "Trix?"

She turned to him, leaving the contemplation of the City behind, and jolting him, as always, with those astonishing blue eyes. "Are you hungry?"

Rolling her eyes, she gave him a quick grin. "A little, _Mart Belden._" What was it with men and food?

"Let's celebrate at Luca's tonight," Jim said, stealing a quick kiss that was caught by the amused cab driver. When she nodded back, he gave the address to the driver and settled back, pulling her against him and tucking her under his shoulder. And began to plot the rest of the night's activities.

**At the Locard Society…**

"Well, Will, what did you think of our curious Miss Belden? Oh excuse me, _Mrs. Frayne_. You had much more time with her than I." Stephen settled down in the comfy leather chair upstairs in the private rooms.

Will took out his pipe and tobacco, taking the time it took to fill it, tamp and light before answering. Drawing shallowly on it, he exhaled a small puff of fragrant smoke as he sat down in a matching recliner. "I think," he responded carefully, "I think she's everything we want her to be, and more."

Stephen raised a slender hand and rubbed the back of his neck. Looking chagrined, he confessed his rather odd encounter with James Frayne. "I certainly made a mull of it with her husband. I had him checking the exits for an escape route."

Will Brietling's hearty chuckle rang through the room. It still surprised Stephen to hear the deep rumble that was his friend's laugh; it was so rarely heard. "I can only imagine, Stephen. You did have that deer in the headlights look when you rejoined us."

"He's a tough biscuit, her husband." Will had to smile again. However many years had Stephen lived on the other side of the pond, he still had little or no grasp of American English. Elevators were still lifts, the hood of the car was the bonnet and the trunk was the boot, and those big 18-wheel monstrosities on the highway were lorries. Cookies were still biscuits. "He's very protective of her."

Will grimaced. Trixie and Jim's rather sudden nuptials almost derailed their plan. However, it was apparent – even to Stephen – they were a stronger unit together. "I'll have Anna messenger her laptop over tomorrow. Once this semester is done, we'll have to start guiding her formal education."

"What about Honey Wheeler?"

Anna knocked quietly and entered the room, a silver tray with three crystal goblets shining a deep red color. "Ah Anna. Claret before dinner."

"I believe you were going to answer Stephen's question about Honey Wheeler before I so rudely interrupted." She perched on the arm of Will's chair after offering the drinks and setting the tray down.

"Miss Wheeler. Yes, yes. I expect that the things we teach Trixie will trickle down to her partner. Once we get Trixie up to speed, then we'll tackle Miss Wheeler."

Anna patted her boss' shoulder, as she sipped daintily from her goblet. "This is a long-term proposition, Will. Are you sure, absolutely sure about this?"

He patted her knee with the familiarity of a long, close association. "I am more sure of this than almost anything I have ever accomplished." His voice was steady and strong, and rang with conviction. "In the fullness of time, Trixie Belden Frayne and Madeleine "Honey" Wheeler will be at the helm of the Locard Society." Lifting his glass, he toasted, "Here's to the changing of the guard."

**Back at the Girls' Apartment…**

"What! You can't be serious!" The words exploded out of Di. "Why on _earth_ would they think we're trying to get married _now_?" She watched as Honey strode over in her tottering gait and stood in front of her, giving her a close-up view of those fluffy little lambs.

Honey plopped on the couch and turned to Diana, holding up one perfectly manicured hand. She began to tick off her reasons, one by one. "First, everything was all hunky-dory with our relationships, right?" Diana nodded her agreement. "Then Trixie and Jim got engaged. She asked us to be in the wedding and Jim asked Brian and Mart." All that was true. Honey paused for air.

"Then, we started talking about how romantic it all was, how Trix and Jim are true soulmates, yadda, yadda. And that's when I began to notice Brian got kind of, well, really really quiet."

Di studied her purple toes. "Mart, too. But you know guys, they aren't interested in that stuff. Maybe they were just bored with the whole subject. After all, they heard it from us, probably from Trixie and Mrs. Belden, too."

Honey gave a very ladylike sniff. "Are you talking about the same Trixie we know and love?" she asked, a sarcastic tilt to her fine brow. "The woman who didn't even want to get a new wedding dress? Refused a dinner at the Country Club? I swear, sometimes I think she assumed the wedding fairies were going to plan everything for her."

Di giggled out her agreement. Trixie was totally not into major wedding details. She gave a general outline of what she and Jim wanted to the mothers and let them have the nervous breakdowns. All she wanted to do was show up and get married to Jim.

"Every time a wedding or engagement is mentioned now, Brian just clams up. Then he starts muttering about medical school and residency and internships and long term goals." Honey began to pace again. "I know that. He has his goals and I have mine. I sort of hoped that once he graduated medical school, we'd be together for his internship and residency. It's romantic and all for Jim and Trix, and right for _them_, but I don't want to get married yet. But it looks like all I'm good for is a booty call."

Her violet eyes flashing, Di said fiercely. "I don't think either one of us has to be anyone's booty call, _especially_ the Belden boys."

"So what do we do? Just out and out tell them, hey, we're not interested in marriage at the moment? If either one of us tries to bring up the subject, they'll just shut us down again."

"We go on strike!" Hey, it worked for the women of ancient Greece, didn't it? Di couldn't quite recall.

"Strike?" Honey was dubious. Would they even notice?

"Yup. Strike. No more booty calls."

A grin began to overspread Honey's face. "No more 24 hour drop everything availability."

"We're two, gorgeous modern women," Di announced in her airy voice. "There are plenty of guys out there who would love to take us out on a real date."

"I don't know about that part, Di. I mean, they might start going out with other women too."

Di rolled her eyes. "Are you exclusive with Brian? Did he ever say anything to you? Mart sure as hell didn't."

"Noooo, I think we both kind of assumed,"

Di broke in. "There's too much assuming in these relationships. So we have coffee after class with someone. I'm sure they did and didn't think anything of it."

"The old double standard. Yeah, now that I think of it, I'm sure they did. Not everyone they met was another guy. I seem to remember Brian talking about a study partner, what the heck was her name, oh yeah, Brittany. He mentioned her a few times and then stopped after I gave him the stink eye." Honey bit her lip, and her eyes lit with excitement. "It could work Di! Let's teach those damn Belden boys a little about treating their women right!" Honey stuck out one slender hand and Di shook it firmly in her own.

"Damn right! Womanpower!" As one, they both pumped their fists into the air. Solidarity. And they giggled at the sight of each other in girly pajamas, toe spacers and freshly painted digits as they plotted their sweet, saccharine sweet, revenge.

**Meanwhile, at Luca's…**

Trixie looked up from her chicken and orzo salad to Jim's intense green gaze. "Do I have something on my face?" she whispered. He'd been watching her raptly all throughout the meal.

The green in his eyes deepened at her sexy little whisper. The blood was roaring in his ears, hotly licking through his veins, deafening him to what she was actually saying. He felt as though they were in a bell jar. Completely alone, and existing only for each other. None of the noises of the busy restaurant intruded upon him.

Every movement she made, every bounce of those curls that drove him absolutely crazy, every breath she inhaled, every blink of those astonishing sapphire blue orbs…it was all so very, very crystal clear. He could never get enough of her touch, never get enough of her mouth, never get enough of those wanton, throaty little moans when they made love. It wasn't just sex. What they had could not be described in so pedestrian a term. There wasn't a word that could describe their delirious, almost incandescent lovemaking.

The words she uttered at the Locard Society kept looping endlessly thorough his head. _There's something I love more, and he's sitting on that couch._ Her eyes were bright with the truth of it, and he was humbled before her.

"Earth to Jim." Trixie waggled her fingers in front of him. It wasn't like him to be so preoccupied. They usually had sparkling conversation or little spats. "Jim?"

"Let's get out of here and get home," he said roughly, snapping back to reality. He had to get her home, and right now, before he swept all the dishes off their table and just took her there. He was that close to losing control.

A rising red tide engulfed her cheeks. She knew that tone, knew that look. Her mouth actually went dry as he threw some bills on the table, and assisted her out of the booth. Jim had to touch her, had to feel that silky skin. He was that desperate.

He literally pulled her out of Luca's, away from the entryway, and backed her up against the building. Trixie looked up at him, lips parted as he brought his head down and ruthlessly plundered her mouth. She could do nothing but go where Jim was taking her.

"Yo, Frayne, get a room!" The deep voice of Mike Seaver finally broke through the cloud of absolute desire deadening his inhibitions. For a moment, Jim actually looked confused. As reason and logic reasserted themselves, he hurriedly straightened his clothes and turned to his friend.

"Hey Mike, what's up?" Jim winced inwardly. That wasn't _quite_ the appropriate choice of words given he was practically ravishing his wife in full view of the City of New York. Slanting a glance at Trixie, he was amazed to see the effect he had on her. Her blue eyes were dilated, cheeks flushed, lips swollen with the aftereffects of their kisses and those glorious curls tousled as if…as if…well, as if they were just about to make love.

Raising his eyebrows at Jim's choice of greeting, he decided to let the chance to tease the studious Mr. Frayne pass. After all, it was just a few months ago their classmates were taking bets on whether Jim was gay. Now he had some girl pressed up against a building and was making out with her like they weren't in the middle of a busy street in the greatest city in the world. He tried to peep around Jim's broad shoulders for a glance at the girl, but was defeated. "Haven't seen much of you this summer," Mike said conversationally. In fact, he hadn't seen Jim at all.

Trixie finally snapped out of the red haze of desire that was clouding her faculties. She tugged on her crumpled top, smoothed her hands on her thighs, and stepped up beside Jim, sliding her hand in his.

"I was pretty busy at home all summer," Jim replied, squeezing Trixie's hand. "Mike Seaver, this is my wife, Trixie Frayne."

Oh. My. God. As Mike took Trixie's outstretched hand in his, he felt as if his jaw hit the ground. He must have said something, because she smiled at him as they disengaged. The blonde from the picture that Jim was mooning over last semester.

As Mike gave Trixie the once over, he could understand Jim's haste. Theoretically. She was much prettier in person, delicate and with that innocent sexuality that could make a grown man weep his thanks to the gods. Or push her up against a building to taste that delectable, very-kissed looking mouth.

Married.

He must have said it out loud, because the tall redhead looked at him in puzzlement and restated, "Married."

A dazzling smile spread across Trixie's face as she retorted, not without sarcasm, "Are you two enacting a scene from _Sixteen Candles_? Yes married!"

Having the grace to redden, Mike hastily offered his congratulations, and a stumbling explanation of how he was late picking up the pizza from Luca's, and he'd see Jim at school, nice to meetcha, Trixie…

He lurched into Luca's and gave his name to the man behind the counter. Wow. Married. To a beauty right out of high school. Mike smiled again as he paid and picked up the pies. He was going to be the darling of the dorms once again, and no doubt he would be breaking the heart of more than one co-ed.

Outside, Trixie turned to Jim with a smirky smile on her face, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Um, we kind of shocked your friend," she giggled.

He looked at her again and his mouth went absolutely dry. He was swamped again, overwhelmed with feelings he couldn't give voice to. There were just no words written or spoken that could have conveyed his message. It was all mixed up in him, the urge to just throw her over his shoulder and go back to their cave; to love and cherish her until death do them part, and even that would only be temporary. Frayne men loved once and loved for eternity. Trixie was his eternity.

Instead, he gave her a hard kiss and hustled her back to their apartment, praying they wouldn't meet any of the Bob-Whites on the way. And when they got there, inside, he took her gently to their marital bed and showed her, proved to her, just how loved she really was. As the tears leaked down the side of her closed eyes, so moved was she, he nuzzled his face between her neck and shoulder, still needing the contact. Her hand reached up to his beloved red hair, stroking there.

"I love you," she whispered softly, "Only you. It's always been you, will always be you."

A secret smile curved his well-shaped mouth against the soft skin of her shoulder. "And I love you."

**At the Abandoned Gas Station…**

She dozed off for a little while, because when she awoke, her eyes, hazy with sleep, immediately saw the high-end sneakers only inches from her face. He must have removed the blindfold while she slept. She blinked rapidly to clear the gray out, but the subdued lighting made it impossible for her eyes to focus clearly after being bound tightly in the dark for so long .

Her mouth was as dry as cotton, her throat parched. "Please," she whispered hoarsely, "Please, why are you doing this to me?"

He bent down over her, snapping the duct tape that held her legs captive, and just as swiftly replaced it with cold iron manacles. His fingers were long and slender, his hands not rough or calloused, but smooth and soft. Strong arms reached down to grasp hers and pulled her to a standing position. Her legs buckled, and he caught her to him, close enough to recognize the leathery scent he wore.

"I'm going to release your hands now, Becky," he said softly. There's a chemical toilet over there. I'll turn my back while you use it. If you try anything," he warned in a harder voice, "You'll suffer for it. Badly."

There it was again. That name. Becky. "My…name isn't Becky," she whispered. "It's Don…"

"Shut up, Becky, and take care of business. Unless you want me to do it for you." The voice became harder. She was still having problems focusing; everything seemed indistinct and hazy. As he let her go, her knees buckled again.

He sighed heavily, and hauled her up and over to the toilet, which was semi-enclosed. Turning his back, he allowed her to use him as a steadying post, and walked away once she was settled. It was absolutely blissful to be allowed to perform normal bodily functions that one took for granted every day. She was _almost_ grateful to him.

"Mister? I'm done," she called out, her voice quivering. She put her hands to her aching head and felt the wig. She forgot about that. Sliding a hand underneath, her fingers passed over the smooth skin of her scalp. _He shaved my head_. In place of her thick, brown ringlets was a cheap wig of blonde spirals that reached down to her shoulders.

He came and helped her back to the area where she had been bound. An old stool was there, and a large bottle of ice cold water and a sandwich. "Eat."

She uncapped the water and drank deeply. Her vision had started to clear a bit, and she took stock of her surroundings. It was an abandoned gas station, and she was chained to the lift for the cars. The toilet she had just used was within reach of the chains. As she greedily stuffed the sandwich into her mouth, she peeked up at her captor.

He was tall, with sandy brown hair and nice-looking. Not like those crazed kidnappers you see on television, with the bushy beards and Charlie Manson eyes. He looked…normal. Clean, in fact fastidious. She recognized the clothes as preppy Ralph Lauren. Classic. And rich. His eyes were covered by sunglasses, even though it was rather dark in the station.

_Her_ eyes began to drift shut again, and the paper plate fell from her lap to the ground. As she began a slow descent to the hard, unforgiving concrete, he easily caught her. As the dark began to flirt around the edges of her brain, she realized he was removing the shackles. _He must have drugged me again._ Before darkness claimed her once more, the last thing she felt was his hands at her waist, peeling off the dirty jeans she wore. A small tear leaked from her eye. At least she wouldn't be conscious while it happened. She surrendered, eagerly, to the dark.

A/N: My thanks to my excellent editors, Mylee and Grandma Cindy for their valuable input!


	6. Chapter 6

Tabloid Trix Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Random House is the lucky entity that owns the characters; I only own the story

_12 Years Ago…_

_She stood at the bottom of the hill, shrouded by the copse of trees, and watched as bright orange and red flames engulfed the old Victorian-style house. She knew what this meant._

_Her parents were dead, and she was supposed to be with them. _

_She watched as the fire continued to consume the house, parts of it almost blue-white in intensity. Large columns of sparks shot upward, to twinkle out like so many dying fairies. She knew, without a doubt, her brother … her monster … set the ravenous beast on their family._

_As the roof collapsed with a thunderous reverberation she actually felt in her chest, she turned from the scene and began to walk away; slowly at first, one foot in front of the other, more shambling then walking. As she heard the scream of the fire engines, her feet picked up speed without any instruction; she began to run deeper into the woods. The small branches stung her face as she whipped by, literally, running for her life. _

_Out of breath, struggling with deep raspy gulps of air, she leaned against the old tree. It too was dying; its branches bare of concealing greenery. A large hole gaped in the trunk. Jody leaned her face against the rough bark, and allowed the first tears to come. The cold, logical place in her brain allowed her the luxury of silently mourning her parents for a few brief moments, before it whispered its mandate: save yourself._

_She reached inside the hole, and with some difficulty, pulled out the large, sealed metal container wrapped in plastic. Once open, on top sat a short, dark wig, generic jogging set, sneakers. She quickly discarded her jeans, tee shirt and old, comfortable sandals, balling them up in a wad. There was a large tote with more clothes and a wallet; papers and airline tickets. There was also a passport and bankbooks. Looking over them, she nodded to herself. Her dad had been right._

_Turning towards the direction of the fire, she could see the red glow in the sky. Jody Lavigne was perishing in that fire tonight, along with her parents, Jacqueline and Thomas Lavigne. Miraculously, the only family member that will have escaped the holocaust is the 15-year-old son, who is away at computer camp. She could see the newspaper article in her mind._

_Out of the ashes of that ruined house, like a phoenix, rose the newly-born Lissa Ann Thorne. She clutched her precious cargo in her hands and simply walked out of the woods, onto a bus, and into a new life, discarding her old one in various dumpsters along the way._

_As his sister made her way to Europe, he waited impatiently for the telephone call he was sure that was coming. He knew he was the favored one. Smart, handsome, strong. And oh, the poor boy, an orphan._

_A rich orphan. _

_He had an impeccable alibi; he was here, at this stupid computer camp where he knew more than 99.9% of the morons in charge. It was easy to slip away when they went to the movies earlier that day in town; a quick jog home and the delayed incendiary device was planted. Paper, chlorine and a few household chemicals; some extremely flammable foam cushioning set right near the hot water heater. So sad._

_He actually was pleased when his dad won a multi-state lottery. They certainly moved on up from the middle class to that rarefied group of instant millionaires. Of course, his parents and sister were so thrilled to appear on television to accept that huge fake check. Their grinning faces not realizing that his dad had signed their early death warrant when he gave that little paper card to the store proprietor with his lucky numbers so carefully filled in. He liked to picture the ticket coming out of the machine, black and dripping with blood. _

_He had petitioned the court for emancipation earlier in the year with the support of his parents; because of his genius, the fact he was in college at such a young age, it was granted. It was all coming together now. They would pay for what they did to Becky. Liz, Jody's friend, already paid. _

_A slight creak as the door opened; a wobbling flashlight. The thought flashed across his brain: It's _showtime_._

**Present Day, Aidan's and Kaitlin's Apartment…**

"So, how was your talk with your freshman advisor yesterday?" Kaitlin shot over her shoulder at her brother as she rooted through the fridge. Now where _was_ that yogurt?

He reached around her and pulled the little container from behind the mustard on the door. "This what you're looking for?" he smirked.

"Smart-ass." She grabbed it from his outstretched hand and stomped over to the table. She had almost forgotten what it was like to share a life with _your little brother._ Agita. Yep. Agita.

Grabbing a chair and straddling it, Aidan teased his sister. "Nice of you to finally admit my ass is in fact, very smart."

"Yeah, well, it's where all your brains are located." Right back atcha, bro. "How did everything go at school yesterday, she repeats out loud to her apparently hard-of-hearing brother?"

Grabbing an apple from the lovely bowl of fruit in the center of the table, Aidan bit into it with a crunch and chewed thoughtfully. "I met with my freshman advisor. He was ok, I guess. I was assigned my upperclassman buddy, you know, to familiarize me with the campus and all the amenities. She was waiting for me, nice girl."

"She?" Kaitlin raised her eyebrows.

"I was surprised too. Not to sound sexist or anything, but the field just doesn't attract that many women. Her name is Apryl, something or another. You know how bad I am with names. We walked around campus a bit; I bought a couple more books I needed at the bookstore."

Kaitlin stared into the plastic cup that contained the remnants of her yogurt. Dan didn't call her yesterday, hadn't contacted her since dinner at the Fraynes'. She just hoped it was because of the busyness of a new semester and not because of Aidan's undisguised jealousy of Dan's best friends. She sighed quietly, hesitating to bring up the subject with her brother, but unable not to.

"Um, Aidan? I need to talk to you about something." Her slender fingers turned the plastic cup this way and that, needing the distraction.

Uh-oh. He didn't think he was going to enjoy whatever Kaitlin had to impart. And he bet he knew just what she wanted to talk to him about, he thought with a sarcastic tilt to his eyebrows. His appetite gone, he tossed the half-eaten apple into the garbage and waited for Kaitlin to begin. He wasn't going to make this any easier for her.

"You need to get over this…thing with Trixie," she burst out, unable to come up with a kinder way to say it. Her grey-green eyes met her brother's stormy ones, already sliding more towards grey than green. "Aidan, I love you, I really do. But, you need to face facts. It's not like you and Trixie were actually dating or anything," she rushed on, needing to get it all out before he simply got up and walked away. "You're a good-looking guy. There are hundreds of girls that would go out with you in a heartbeat. Leigh Michaels was practically draped all over you this past summer in Sleepyside. You're letting this whole thing eat you up inside, and…"

Aidan snorted. He really, really wanted to rage at his sister, at Jim Frayne, at the fates that found him Trixie Belden and then made him let her go. "Kaitlin, I am not interested in Leigh other than as a friendly date." He told Leigh that several times during their brief fling over the summer, watched the disappointment flare in her eyes. She just wasn't a petite blonde with long curls and an exuberant personality.

Kaitlin ran an exasperated hand through her hair. "That's just it, Aidan. What are you hoping for? That Trixie will suddenly show up at our door one day, saying she made a mistake? You saw them together the other day. It ain't gonna happen."

_Maybe it will. Maybe one day Trixie will realize she married the wrong guy._ That little voice in his head kept whispering over and over. It was _possible_. He frowned at his sister. "Why should this matter to you so much anyway?" he ground out. He didn't pry into her love life when she supposedly married Jake, that rat. He was really weary of his family pounding at him about this.

"For someone who is so smart, you surprise me, little brother." She needed to make him see. "Trixie and Jim live in the same building. We are friends with all the other Bob-Whites. You can't be running around with your tongue hanging out for her. They're going to notice sooner or later."

"And what? Not be friends anymore?" he sneered at her. What, were they back in grade school again?

"Maybe," Kaitlin replied, tired of the conversation already. "How do you think her brothers and sister-in-law are gonna feel about having us over if you can't control your damn hormones?"

"I think you're just worried about one Bob-White in particular," Aidan taunted. "And what's so different about _you_ falling for Dan Mangan practically at first sight?"

"Because, Aidan, I admit I was attracted to him, just like you were to Trixie. The big difference was, _he's not involved with anyone_. He made that clear to me. How much more clearly does Trixie have to make it to you? Damn it, Aidan, she chose Jim. Get over it." God, she felt like smacking him one.

"Well, Trixie wasn't involved…" he began, with that mulish expression she hated.

"You can try fooling yourself all you want, Aidan. The real facts are that Trixie and Jim have been involved since they were kids. If you're going to go around drooling puddles whenever you see her, you're…you're just going to ruin _everything._"

"Yeah, so speaks the lady whose supposed _husband_ was cheating on her with her best friend, while her parents were falling apart over her sham marriage." As soon as Aidan uttered those hurtful, angry words, he was sorry. Kaitlin's face paled and her eyes widened in shock. "Kait, I'm…"

She sliced one slender hand through the air, effectively cutting him off. With her eyes downcast and shoulders slumped, she stood and grabbed her messenger bag. "I'm going to school," she mumbled, her voice thick with unshed tears. "See you later."

Aidan sat at the table, rubbing his eyes. _Just great. I had to go and upset her. What the hell is the matter with me? _He sat at the table along time, wondering how he was ever going to get over losing Trixie Belden.

**At the **_**OMG!**_** Editorial offices…**

Paul Trent sat in the reception area, sweat dotting his brow. This was it. He had to make a good case why the magazine should run cover stories on some kids practically no-one had ever heard of outside of a small town in the state of New York.

He glanced around the office, taking it all in. _OMG!_ might be headquartered in Manhattan, but the building was small and shabby. No doubt the threadbare rug and rather beat up furniture came with the lease. It was tough times for the gossip rag industry; he suspected that's why most of the reporters – and he used that term loosely – were just used-up, tired guys like himself who couldn't get a job with the legitimate press anymore.

He had on his best navy blue suit with a white shirt and red tie. It was supposed to signify power, when he felt so powerless. His left leg jumped up and down, tapping away nervously and irritating the receptionist, who glared at him several times. His battered old black leather briefcase held his salvation.

_If_ the Editorial Board agreed.

The receptionist glanced over again at the man sitting on one of the mismatched, worn chairs that the landlord probably purchased at some garage sale, unless he picked them up right out of the garbage on the street, and sniffed. If he didn't stop tapping his foot, she was going to strangle him with the ancient typewriter ribbon she found in one of the desk drawers. He was the last in a long line of desperate-looking people, hoping to persuade the bosses to run with their story. At least this one made an effort to look professional. The woman that was in there now pitching her ideas, which, the receptionist had to admit, would probably be stolen without a second thought, arrived in a hot pink halter top and matching hip-hugging capris. Unfortunately, the woman was sixty if she was a day, and the sexagenarian did not have the body for such a revealing outfit, and the halter-hip senior smelled to high heaven of a mixture of some heavy musky scent and beer.

The receptionist looked at her watch; the hot pink lady has been in there for 10 minutes. Another five and they'd get her out of there. Snapping her gum, she looked at the dinosaur of a computer she was saddled with and frowned. This job was nothing like she thought; glamorous offices and movie stars daily. Friday was payday and she was out of here. Let them find some other sucker to work in this crappy building and run-down office. She figured it wouldn't be long before the magazine went belly-up anyway.

Ms. Hot Pink Halter staggered out of the office, bringing with her the cloud of yeasty beer and musk, and stuffing some crumpled papers into her purse. She smiled blearily in Paul's direction, and tottered out.

The receptionist began spraying the room with some sort of air freshener, overlaying the beer and musk with a heavy floral scent, and Paul began to pray he wouldn't get sick, right there in the waiting area.

The intercom on the desk gasped, and a static-laden voice asked the receptionist to please send in Mr. Trent.

He stood shakily, and thought to himself: _It's showtime._

**At Cop College…**

"You know Jim, Honey and I are big girls now. There was no need for you to escort us on our first day of class," Trixie peeped up at Jim as the three of them approached Haaren Hall. _Criminology 101, here we come!_

"OOOh, I'm nervous Trix," Honey lamented. "I think the butterflies in my stomach are doing somersaults. I don't mind having my big brother here, even for a little bit."

Jim's strong arm snaked out, gathered Honey under his shoulder and gave her a brotherly squeeze. His other hand was firmly entwined with that of his wife, she of the excited blue eyes and bouncing blonde curls.

Truth to tell, Trixie was just that _little_ bit glad that Jim was here. Her smile during her earlier complaint had taken the sting out of it. College! _Criminal_ College! It was all she could do not to boisterously dance her way to class.

"Now, what kind of a husband," he slanted a green glance at Trixie, "Or big brother would I be if I didn't help my two best girls on their first day of college?" he asked rhetorically. He stopped in front of a large, rather ornate building, and handed Trixie's messenger bag to her. "Here are your schoolbooks, little girl," he leered at her, waggling his russet brows.

"Behave there, James," she hissed as she smacked him lightly on the arm. He grinned that lopsided grin that sent tingles down her spine as he handed Honey her bag and gave her another good luck squeeze.

Trixie stood on her tiptoes and waited patiently until their lips met. Jim's strong arms pulled her closer, as Honey pretended to watch the sky for a possible alien invasion. Groups of students entering the building smiled at the sight of the petite blonde and the towering redhead locked in a passionate embrace.

Honey cleared her throat, rather loudly. "Trix. Class. Late." They sure were making up for all the years of fond glances!

Reaching up to tug his favorite curl, Jim smiled into Trixie's dazed eyes. He was sure his own reflected the same amount of longing and, well, lust to be honest. He gave her another hard kiss. "Good luck in class, Shamus. You too, Honey."

Honey tugged on Trixie's arm, pulling her into the building as Jim watched the sway of his wife's curvy hips and sighed. Back to the real world, and now back to school. His long strides began to eat up the hot New York sidewalk.

The cooler interior of Haaren Hall helped to alleviate some of Trixie's flushed face. As she and Honey passed into Professor Luke Masse's freshman class, he quietly observed the two giggling blondes as they found seats and took out their laptops. Madeleine Wheeler looked as patrician as her name, obviously a simpering heiress who didn't know the meaning of hard work.

Trixie Frayne was more of a surprise. The petite curly-haired blonde radiated a kind of leashed energy, enthusiasm and interest. And those eyes! Big delphinium blue orbs that lifted to his gaze and actually made him turn his head, but not before he caught the flash of the rock she wore on her left ring finger.

He looked at his watch, noted the time and sighed. _It's showtime._

**In the Abandoned Gas station…**

Donna awoke slowly, her head feeling like it was stuffed with masses of fluffy cotton balls. The floor was hard and cold, and just for a moment, she thought: _Where the hell am I?_

As she stretched out her legs, she felt the heavy manacle that tethered her to the lift, and she knew. _She knew._

She closed her eyes again, willing them not to leak out the threatening tears, and began to take an internal inventory. Her legs were still shackled, but her arms were free. Her hand went to her most private area. Did he rape her? It didn't feel like she was violated. In fact, it felt like she had on clothes. But not _her_ clothes.

She pushed herself to a sitting position and opened her eyes. The room swam around her, tilting precariously, until she was able to steady herself. There was a light burning somewhere and the stool had another bottle of water on it and a small bag of trail mix.

She glanced down at her clothes and could not prevent a small gasp from escaping. Her legs were shrouded in white tights; her Crocs were replaced by blue suede Maryjanes. Instead of her McTrendy's uniform of tight blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt with the company logo, she had on a tight blue skirt and white peasant blouse with blue rickrack on the puffed sleeves. The blouse was rather low cut and showed much more cleavage than she was comfortable with. On top of this rather odd outfit was an apron with matching blue rickrack.

She heard his voice again, that smooth, cultured voice of her captor. He was talking to someone else. She couldn't make out the other person's voice at all, but it sounded like he was arguing. Maybe on a cell phone. Shivers began to rack her body. She had no idea how long she had been here, how long she would be here. The only thing she could try to do is listen to see if her life was to be ticked off in minutes, hours or days.

"She's not right, darling." Becky's hectoring voice nagged at him. "She looks terrible in blonde hair."

"Damn it Becky, _none_ of them are right for you. How many times are we going to have to go through this?"

"Until you get it right," she snapped back. Only _she_ could make him feel like a failure. "Do you think I like looking like this?" Her one good plastic arm created a stiff arc. "Look at me! _They_ did this to me!"

He raised his colorless eyes to Becky's once beautiful face. Half of it was a melted black char, that mesmerizing sapphire eye sealed shut. Her body fared no better, the fire – not the one that had consumed the lives of his parents and sister, but the _other_ one, had rendered Becky's left side a blackened, twisted mess.

"Okay. Just let me see how she looks with the blue eyes." He smiled suddenly. "I'll bet they make all the difference." He picked up the eyes from the table, and his scalpel. The light caught at them, that lovely, lovely sheen that never died.

"I still don't think she's right," Becky grumbled. "But go ahead darling. It's showtime."

A/N: As always, my appreciation extends to my lovely editors Mylee and Grandma Cindy & the countless hours they put into reading and reviewing!


	7. Tabloid Trix Chapter 6

Tabloid Trix Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: Don't own 'em. Ain't makin no money.

The first thing he noticed when entering the chamber of the Great and Powerful Oz…oh, the Editorial Conference Room, he thought sarcastically, was that the old windows gracing one side of the room were dirty. In fact, they looked like they hadn't been washed since Judy Garland skipped down that yellow brick road with a bunch of those scary-looking Munchkins.

Paul Trent actually considered that _so_ apropos. At one time, the windows were new and clean and sparkling and transparent. After a while, the soot and dirt and countless human fingers smudged them beyond the capacity of any cleaner to restore their shine. Just like the gossip biz. You take someone's reputation and smear it with rumor, dirty it with little white lies, and cloud it with innuendo. Sometimes people can come back from that, maybe not as sparkly as new, but serviceable nonetheless.

And sometimes, gerbils follow them for the rest of their lives.

He glanced at the three people that made up the Editorial Board of _OMG!..._and the lawyer. One couldn't forget the lawyer. And he couldn't forget he was here to beg, if necessary, for his professional life…and revenge.

"Mr. Trent? You've written some very well-received pieces for us." In an ironic twist of fate, the Editor in Chief was named Nanci Drue. She wasn't a fictional girl detective who had clues fall right into her lap while she solved crimes, never even snapping a fingernail. Instead, she was a tall brunette with hair pulled ruthlessly back into a serviceable French twist. She was thin and hard-edged, with frown lines around her skinny lips and an 'I want' line furrowed between her eyebrows. Oh, yeah, and she affected the last name D'Rue. Must have been hell when she was a kid.

Her two assistant editors were studies in contrasts. Amy Ling was a petite China doll, with straight black hair, the reddest lipstick he ever saw, and incongruously, a thick Brooklyn accent. Her fingers played ceaselessly with the cellphone in her hand.

Nick Clayborne was the biggest surprise. Tall, movie-star handsome with straight whiter-than-white teeth, full lips and sparkling cognac eyes to match his carefully dyed and groomed hair, he was strong and masculine looking.

And very, very, gay.

And the lawyer was, well, a lawyer.

"Thank you, Ms. D'Rue. I hope that I can interest you all in something, well, completely different," Paul began, making eye contact with each one in the room. Setting his briefcase on an empty chair, he opened it and began tacking pictures up on the corkboard in the room.

A handsome redhead. A beautiful, curly-haired blonde. Two more exquisitely lovely women, one with honey-blonde hair and the other with hair the color of a raven's wing. A blonde man who very closely resembled the curly-haired woman; two more handsome, black-haired men.

"An attractive group, Mr. Trent, especially the men," Nick said, arching his brows. "Who the heck are they and why should we be interested in them?"

"They, Mr. Clayborne," Paul announced with a flourish, "are going to save this magazine."

**Back at Professor Masse's class…**

"Good day, ladies and gentlemen," Luke began. "This is freshman Criminology 101. Please make sure you are _supposed _to be in this class." It just boiled his ass he had to make that announcement at the beginning of _every_ class in _every_ new semester. These people were supposed to be adults. They needed to take accountability for their actions, not be coddled through college like delicate china cups, and crying to mommy and daddy about the big, bad professor.

No-one got up to leave. Always a good sign.

"I am Professor Luke Masse. You all should be aware of the books and workbooks required for this course, and should be prepared with the same. Your assignments will be briefly touched on in class, and posted on my page on the college website. You are responsible for turning them in on time, and, absent your own death, you will be marked late if they are not in by the specified date. Requirements for homework and papers are also posted on my web page. One thing to remember is that I will not accept handwritten papers. Everything must be typed out in Times New Roman 12 on 8.5 by 11 paper. If you do not have a computer or printer, you can access the computer lab maintained by the school." He paused. _Some _ of the students in his class were not lucky enough to be the daughter of a billionaire or marry into money. And have brand new, top-of-the-line Macs to play with.

"I would like to remind you that this is college, people, and you're supposed be adults. I will take attendance today, to put a name with a face, but quite frankly, I don't care one way or another if you're here or not. Accumulate enough absences and you will be dropped from this class. You can review your student handbook regarding tardies and dropping the class on your own."

Honey nudged Trixie's foot under the table they shared. _This_ was the start of college? This hard-edged man who seemed to look at her and her best friend like they were some sort of slime? Feeling the nerves radiating from her best friend like warming rays from the sun, Trixie gave a squeeze to Honey's cold hand under the table, and narrowed her sapphire eyes in an assessing glare. Just what was this guy's problem, anyway?

Professor Masse ran through attendance quickly, pausing minutely when he uttered the names of the women from Sleepyside. His upper lip curled into a sneer as he read their names and listened for Honey's quiet, "Here."

Mrs. Frayne was a different, disconcerting story. Expecting her to be a bit cowed, he was startled to hear her firm voice announce her presence. Her big blue eyes were spearing into him with a measuring, almost amused look. It was almost as if she knew what he was thinking.

He cleared his throat. "How many of you watch _CSI_ and all its various incarnations on a regular basis?" Most of the room raised their hands eagerly. Another surprise. The rich kids did not raise their hands. Going on the attack, bad cop, he began to interrogate who he thought was the weakest link. Madeleine Wheeler.

"Ms. Wheeler, are you trying to tell me you _never_ watched _CSI_? The most popular show in the known universe?" The class tittered a bit, nervously. They had deciphered the hint of superiority in his tone while talking to their pretty classmate.

Shocking him, grasping Trixie's hand so hard it must have hurt her, Honey spoke up rather loudly and without a tremble in her voice. "I have much too much going on in my life to be bothered by a fictional show that has no real connection as to what real police work entails."

_Yeah, debutante balls and sunning out in the Islands, I'm sure. _He glanced over at Trixie Frayne, the same question dying on his lips. Fiery blue daggers were aimed in his direction, and if they had been real, he would now be a dead man. Choosing instead to build on Honey's response, he began his standard first day of class speech.

"Miss Wheeler has a very valid point," he conceded with ill grace. "If any of you are watching dramatic television forensic shows – and there are quite a few out there, you will be sorely disappointed in your chosen career. Real life crimes are not solved in 40 minutes, and the crime scene investigators are only that…there to collect evidence for the lab. Many of the towns and cities, especially in these days of tight budgets, do not have the money for sophisticated equipment. Therefore, if you think that you will be present at the crime scene collecting evidence, becoming an expert in such diverse fields as entomology, firearms identification, DNA, voiceprint technology _and_ be a party to arresting the perps and interrogation, you should change your major to theatre and hope that you get a job out in Hollywood."

**At the **_**OMG!**_** offices…**

"And where have we heard that before?" Amy Ling muttered under her breath. She absolutely despised these days, when Nanci made them all sit there and listen to these second-rate stringers. Once in a blue moon someone came up with the germ of an idea, but it was so rare as to be statistically non-existent.

Paul heard the comment, took it in stride, although his heart was hammering so loud and so strongly, he could swear he saw his shirt move in syncopation with the beats. Gesturing to the room with his open hand, he began to explain.

"All the gossip magazines, not just _OMG!, _ are in trouble, deep financial trouble. I can tell you why and how to make _OMG!_ stand alone in its field." His eyes skittered from one person to another, restless, wanting.

"Every week we run the same story. Brad and Angie are breaking up. Brad and Angie are getting married. Brad and Angie are adopting a child. Brad cheated on Angie. Angie cheated on Brad. Angie's pregnant. The same week we are running a story about their breakup, the other magazines are running a story about how happy they are together. All of us, fighting each other. After a while, even the stupid American public catches on that we don't know what the hell we're talking about. To top it off, we have the internet and all those gossip blogs that get the latest and the greatest out there into cyberspace almost the second it happens. By the time _OMG!_ comes out, we're a mile behind. In these days of high gas prices, foreclosures and job loss, a gossip rag doesn't rank high on the _I need_ list."

Nick Clayborne piped up in his deep voice. "I think we are aware of the pressing issues facing the gossip industry, Trent. How can your little display of pictures help us?" _God, just get to the damn point!_

Paul rested both palms on the table, leaning on them as if to hold himself up. "What's the biggest draw on television nowadays?" he asked to the room at large. "What are people tuning in to watch week after week? What tops the ratings?"

Her eyes glittering, Nanci replied evenly. "Reality shows."

Paul smiled at her, a feral, wolfish smile. "Give the lady a prize. Reality shows. What _OMG!_ needs to do is create its own version of a reality show. Not with the tired old crap from Hollywood, or the reality stars currently on television. _We need to create our own stars_. And this group of kids, good looking and full of the drama of real life people seem to idolize can do that for us."

If the people in the room were dogs, their ears would have stood at attention. "So what's different about these kids, than say, the kids on MTV?" Amy asked, her interest piqued.

Paul backed up to the corkboard and began to tick them off one by one. "Madeleine 'Honey' Wheeler. Name ring a bell? Heiress to the Wheeler/Hart Corporation, the third largest privately held corporation in the United States, and richer than God. James Winthrop Frayne II, her adopted brother, heir to a substantial fortune in his own right as well as WH Corporation. The Beldens – Trixie, Brian and Mart. Next door neighbors to the magnificent Wheeler mansion known as the Manor House. They all come from a modest farm known as Crabapple Farm. Yet Brian is seriously dating Honey Wheeler and Trixie just married Jim Frayne at the tender age of 18." He paused for breath.

"Daniel Mangan, ex-gang member from the City, transplanted to bucolic Sleepyside for rehabilitation. Finally, Diana Lynch, heiress to the Lynch fortune, another huge privately owned corporation, maybe even right below Wheeler's. Mart Belden, seriously dating the wealthy Ms. Lynch. As children, they all banded together to form a club; their binds so tight they are all living in the same apartment building in the City while they attend college."

Nanci jumped up, alarming the rest. "Childhood friends; a mysterious club. Huge secret fortunes, and oh yeah sex and bad boys. All wrapped up in a gift package waiting for someone to unwrap its potential. Pretty good Trent. Pretty good."

The lawyer spoke up then. "Matthew Wheeler and Edward Lynch have some pretty deep pockets. Deep enough, anyway, to tie us up in litigation for a long, long time."

"They can't sue us for printing the truth," Trent countered. "Just skewed a little bit. Enough to tweak interest every week, in the magazine or your blog on the internet, Clayborne."

"But how do you engage the public's interest?" Amy tapped one long, red dragon-lady nail against her scarlet lips. "They're all good looking, blah blah blah, but we know the cover pictures sell the magazine. And really, they're nobodies."

Paul sat down. They were actually listening. His knees were too weak to support him anymore. Feeling as though he was in the last hundred yards of a marathon, he went on to explain. "Got that covered too. We get one of the West coast stringers in on this in the beginning. The richest 5 under-21s in the United States. We have one, two and three right here in New York, on that board. The other two are the kids of one of those computer gurus, nerdy, just like him. West Coast gives us a couple of paragraphs, photo of the house, crappy photos of the kids. We run our kids in the same article looking like movie stars against the West Coast kids. Ancillary photos of the bad boy and the Beldens. We won't say anything about Jim being married in this one to capture the interest of the females out there. Then we serialize it. Next issue…their mysterious club…what went on in that clubhouse with no parents present? Just that little hint that something wild may have gone on…sex? Drugs? And deep in the story, the actual reveal that basically nothing went on, couched in a little sentence most of our discerning readers will gloss right over."

Nanci went to stand behind Paul and put her bony hands on his shoulders. It was all he could do not to shudder violently. "I like it!" She stepped over to the gallery Paul had so thoughtfully provided. "This one," she said, pointing to the picture of Trixie. "I can see her as the cover." Indeed, Paul had captured her indomitable spirit, sparkling sapphire eyes and dazzling smile. "Jim Frayne's Child Bride! I can see the headline now," Nanci warmed to the subject.

Nick grinned. "And buried in the story, the fact he knew her since she was a child, not that she's a child now. Genius, Trent, absolute genius."

Amy was still dubious. "Do we have enough on them to interest the readers, week after week? How did you ever come across them, Paul?"

Paul's smile stretched eerily across his face. "I've known them forever. They lived in the same little town that I did. And I have a million stories to tell. My way."

Nanci walked back to Paul, rubbed his shoulders. "Okay then, we're agreed. Trent, you're hired. I'll have your contract by tomorrow afternoon. Amy, get Milagros out in California on the nerd kids. However," she cautioned in a hard voice, her nails digging into his shoulders like talons, "it will all be contingent on a rise in readership. We'll make them tabloid stars," Nanci laughed.

"Yeah, I like that." Paul Trent eyed the photo of Trixie Frayne. "Tabloid Trix." If his laughter had an edge of hysteria, no-one mentioned it.

**Back at Cop College…**

Honey ran a slender hand through her hair. "I don't think I like that Professor Masse, Trixie. I don't think I like him at all." The two were sitting in the student union, having a bottled water and waiting for the next class. She turned her troubled topaz gaze and met Trixie's stormy blue one. During the balance of his lecture, he was arrogant, demeaning and Honey decided, looked at both of them with undisguised contempt. His attitude was certainly putting a damper on their first day of college.

"Yeah, he was a jerk, wasn't he?" Trixie picked up on his rather puzzling attitude toward them. Initially, she surmised that he might have a problem with females entering law enforcement. There were still plenty of people – both male and female – who thought the career was one that should remain exclusively male. However, closely watching his expressions and listening to his words, it was apparent that, while he treated the rest of the students, even the female ones, with the same dismissive attitude, his blatantly sneering looks and snarky little digs were aimed solely at Honey and her.

"Maybe we should drop his class and take the course with another professor," Honey suggested. Her earlier excitement had deflated like yesterday's party balloon, as she gently wiped the condensate from the bottle into a thin napkin.

Trixie leaned her elbow on the table, cupping her chin in her hands. "Not an option, Honey. None of the other classes would fit in our schedule. We'd have to redo the whole thing. What we need to do is find out what his problem is with us."

Honey sat back in her chair, her restless hands shredding the napkin. "You're right, Trix. Maybe it was just our imagination. We'll have to see how it goes. Are you going to tell Jim?"

Trixie stood, shaking her head. She was a big girl now and had to deal with her own problems, and not go dumping them on her friends or Jim to solve for her. "No, you know your brother. He'd want to charge right down there and treat Masse to a dose of the Frayne temper." The girls walked to the recycling bin and dumped their bottles. "I don't want to be bailing him out of Riker's Island."

Honey giggled. She had to agree. Jim was overprotective of his wife and sister, and to have both clearly unhappy would be the firing pin for his famous temper. "I'm not going to tell Brian either. Although I can't imagine him beating up Professor Masse…more like talking him into a coma."

It was Trixie's turn to laugh. Linking arms, they strolled to their next class, imagining how each Bob-White would take care of their little problem with the arrogant Luke Masse.

**Lyon, France Present Day**

Lissa Thorne was riding silently on the Lyon Metro, idly glancing at the faces of her fellow passengers. There were a couple of Japanese tourists mixed in with the everyday residents making their sleepy way to work. She tucked a short strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. She'd been here so long; she was thinking and speaking in French first, rather than the American English she'd been born into.

Several minutes later, she was exiting the bus and standing in front the large, modern building that housed Interpol, the international agency bringing the world's police together to fight crime and terrorism; to facilitate co-operation among the different countries when faced with increasingly complex crimes.

And serial killers who crossed borders without conscience.

She greeted some fellow workers; a tall, dark-haired woman whose eyes were shadowed with pain. She rarely spoke of herself or her family; all anyone knew of her was that her family had died tragically. Those who tried to get closer were rebuffed in the kindest possible, but very final, way.

Lissa knew they were curious about her, knew that she was sometimes the object of rampant speculation. It was better and safer, for them not to know. She knew that he was aware she didn't die in that fire, so long ago. They never found her body, although it was widely believed that she smelled the smoke and was near the gas main when it exploded, and the force and magnitude of the explosion vaporized her body.

She knew he was searching for her. He'd been in Mexico, Canada, England and scarily enough, Paris, France, before moving on to South Africa.

She knew that, because in each of those countries, a petite woman had gone missing, only to be found dressed up as Becky; heads shaved and hair replaced with long blonde ringlets; their eyes eviscerated and replaced with doll eyes. And dead. All very, very dead.

She had no proof. Nothing she could bring to her bosses to say "Investigate him." As if they would. A well-respected man in his field, rich and a philanthropist? All she could do was track the trail of dead Beckys and the movements of her brother. She sat down, a feeling of foreboding overcoming her. She awoke her sleeping computer, and scrolled through the American news.

And learned that a bartender was missing in the United States, a petite, brown haired woman whom everyone loved. Lissa rubbed her eyes. Score another one for the criminal the police nicknamed "The Dollmaker" because he put those creepy doll's eyes in his victims' empty sockets.

They never made the connection between their mode of dress and a long-ago, forgotten doll from the ABC collection.

Lissa scrubbed at her face with a shaking hand. How long did the latest victim have to live? Was she already dead? Was her brother even tracking her now with his limitless resources and nimble mind?

She leaned over and vomited in her wastepaper basket. _She would never be free_.

A/N: Much love and thanks to my world-class editors, Mylee and Grandma Cindy!


	8. Tabloid Trix Chapter 7

Tabloid Trix Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **They all belong to Random House, rats! Except the people I create. They belong to the dark recesses of my psyche.

Trixie unlocked the door to her apartment after bidding Honey an exhausted goodbye. Dumping her messenger bag on the floor, she walked into the living room and flopped down on the couch. First day of college, done. Now only 4 more years, less one day, to go.

She kicked off her sneakers and wandered over to the fridge. The two classes after Professor Masse's, Psych 101 and Forensic Science, were interesting and the forensic science professor had a dry wit that kept the class entertained and intellectually stimulated. She also mentioned popular forensic television shows, but in a less condescending manner and even lauded some of them. It was an excellent way to reset the day.

She glanced over at the clock on the microwave. Jim wouldn't be home for a while yet, and it was her turn to cook. Deciding that Mr. Maypenny's hunter's stew was just the thing, she pulled one of the containers out of the freezer and dumped it into a pot, putting it on low heat. She mixed up a quick batch of biscuits, plopped them on the baking sheet and preheated the oven.

She was just about to make the salad when the intercom sounded. Walking over, she pressed the button. "Trixie Frayne."

"Hey, Trixie, it's me, Mel." One of the first things Trixie did was make friends with all the doormen. "I have a messenger service down here, from uh," there was a pause while she heard Mel whisper 'Where did you say you were from?' A garbled voice in the distance. "Dr. Breitling. He has a package for you."

"Okay Mel, can you send him up? I just put something on the stove."

"Sure thing, Trix. Thanks."

Just as Mel passed the messenger through, Jim bounded up the few steps to the lobby. "Hey Jim, this guy over here has a package for Trixie," Mel called. "Hey you! This is Mrs. Frayne's husband Jim. Can he sign for it?"

The messenger pulled out an electronic pad and glanced at it. Chewing gum madly, he shoved it in Jim's direction and pointed to the line. After he pocketed the device with a curt nod and an even briefer, "Thanks man," he handed the package over and took off.

Jim stood at the elevator bank pressing the UP arrow repeatedly, as if his impatient prodding would make the tardy machine obey his bidding faster. He couldn't wait to see his wild orchid from Sleepyside. Although they had texted each other throughout the day, he still wanted to dive into those sparkling blue eyes and wrap her comforting grace all around him.

Stepping into the lift, he sarcastically wondered how he made it through five years of fond glances, and now he couldn't even go eight hours without craving her touch. _God, Frayne, you've got it bad_, when his fingers actually trembled as he undid the locks that kept out the rest of the world.

He stepped into their world and his senses were immediately assaulted by the pungent smell of Mr. Maypenny's stew and freshly baking biscuits. Dropping the box on the sofa, he followed his nose to the kitchen, where Trixie sat at the island, tearing lettuce leaves into a serving bowl and humming lightly to whatever tune was currently playing in her head.

And he just couldn't move while his blazing eyes took her in.

Every single time. Every single time they were apart more than a few hours, seeing her again stole his breath, made his blood start to pump madly through his body with a hot, hammering need that never seemed to be quenched. She had put her hair up in a messy ponytail, and its golden glints were swinging as she bopped her head in time to the beat of her tune. His curl, the one that called to him in his dreams and was the source of many a fantasy during his teenage years, had escaped as usual and was saucily awaiting his tug.

He must have made a noise, but he couldn't hear over the roaring in his ears. Trixie looked up at him, those sapphire eyes lighting from within, her full lips parting in the smile she reserved just for him and drawing his attention to them. He just stood there for a minute, eyes locked with hers, emerald to sapphire, and felt his knees go weak.

"Jim?" Her soft, breathy gasp of his name broke the spell he was under, and his long, lean legs made short work of the few steps to the island. "Jim?" she said again, looking into emerald fire. He just shoved the bowl out of the way and reached across the slick surface and dragged her right across, fastening his lips to hers and plundering her soft, lush, warm delicious mouth.

Her arms went around his neck, and her legs fastened themselves around his hips as he sat on the stool, raining hot wet kisses up and down her throat, her jaw, her ears. His hand went to his curl, tugging it gently, letting its soft silkiness wrap around his finger like she was wrapping herself around his body.

He even heard bells.

"My biscuits, Jim." Trixie was pushing away from him, slithering down his lap and grabbing a potholder. He stared after her in confusion, body still on red alert, his most excellent brain clouded with the desire he had absolutely no control over.

Trixie pulled the biscuits from the oven and turned it off, then took care of the timer that interrupted Jim's welcome home. "Gleeps, that was close, but not burnt at all." She turned to him, still sitting there with the most amazing look in his fine eyes. She giggled. "Well, Mr. Frayne, as much as I would like to, we can't live on love alone. Can you finish up the salad while I put the biscuits in the basket?"

"Sure, baby." His voice was thick, hoarse with unspent desire. As he sat there making the salad he was telling his body to calm down. Just…calm down.

"Okay. I'll set the table and dish up the stew and biscuits." They worked together in perfect accord, settling at the little breakfast nook where they took most of their meals together. It was more intimate than the large formal dining room, and just more _them_.

"So, how was your first day, Trix?" Jim inquired, hunger finally defeating libido. He glanced up from his bowl in time to see an emotion flash quickly through Trixie's eyes, something he couldn't identify. It was gone as fast as it appeared.

"I really like the forensic science class. The Professor is very droll and fun. Psychology was interesting. I can't wait to take _Criminal_ Psychology." She deliberately did not say anything about Criminology 101. She was not adept at hiding things from Jim, and didn't want to get into her strange first day in Professor Masse's class.

"You have three classes, right? What about the other one?" Of course he would notice. He noticed every damn thing about her.

She decided that a partial truth was better than telling a whole lie. "It was okay. The professor seems like a pill."

"Yeah, you always get one like that. Oh, I brought up your delivery from the Locard Society."

"Mel rang me, because he knew I was expecting the messenger instead of you, Captain Studly. Locard's pretty efficient. Anyway, enough about me. How was your first day back?" Trixie leaned her elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hands, waiting. Deflection. It almost always worked.

"Damn, baby, I'm beginning to think that men are bigger gossips than women," he frowned. When his wife raised her eyebrows, he hastily added, "Present company excluded, of course. Mike Seaver must have informed every single person in Columbia that we got married last summer." It was amusing when he received a few congratulatory smiles, but a whole day of thumps on the back, salacious winks and little frowny faces from co-eds started to wear on his last nerve.

"Aw, poor baby, having to accept all those good wishes. The absolute nerve of some people!" she twinkled at him, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

"It was a tough job," he wiped imaginary sweat off his brow, laughing. "But if one of us had to suffer, I'm glad it was me."

"Your suffering continues into the night," Trixie advised him. "I cooked; you clean up, Studly. I think there's enough stew left over for you to take to lunch tomorrow. Meanwhile, I am going to check out the package Dr. Brietling sent and oh woe, begin my homework."

As Trixie settled herself in the living room, Jim recalled the brief flash of …something…in her clear blue eyes. Something was up, and she wasn't telling him. He knew the signs. He also knew he couldn't press her on it, yet. She'd tell him, in her own good time.

**At Java City Coffeehouse…**

Kaitlin sat at the small table, absently stirring her iced mocha cappuccino. She had a great day at FIT, met some interesting new people and was astonished at the diversity of the student body and the creativity of fashion displayed by them. She realized that she was seeing some future trends and fads before they broke big. It was exciting to finally be where all the action really was, instead of stuck up there in Maine with that cheating bas…jerk.

The angry words she had with Aidan this morning were still stuck in her head. The awful thing was that he was right about her actions, right about Jake. So maybe he wasn't the kind of guy she'd want to marry, but god, her best friend Stephanie? They were so embarrassed when she walked in on them, just like some bad B-movie. And the thing that hurt the most was the betrayal by her supposed best friend.

She had run out of the apartment, jumped in her car and just drove around for hours. When she returned, Stephanie was gone but Jake was still there full of apologies and lies.

She kicked him the hell out.

And found out the one thing she wanted was the thing she tried so hard to push away, with her tall tales of getting married, settling down in one place – _her family_.

Jake may not have broken her heart, but he dented it pretty well, and her self-esteem took quite a nice hit, too. To lose your boyfriend and best friend in one shot was the stuff that made you wonder what the heck was wrong with you, instead of what the heck was wrong with them.

Her family had been supportive, welcoming her back, making her feel even smaller. And Aidan! In love with a girl who could not return his feelings. Stupid, idiotic, wonderful Aidan, her brother whom she loved so well, faced with the challenge of a girl he could not ever hope to win, now moping around like some lovesick second banana in a romantic novel. Sometimes, things just didn't work out, she sighed to herself. How could she help him understand this?

"Mind if I sit here?" The deep voice at her elbow caused her head to snap up. It belonged to Dan Mangan, he of the toe-tingling kisses a day or two ago. _And no contact since._

"Hi Dan, just set yourself down," she responded quietly, very unlike her normal ebullient self.

Dan searched Kaitlin's unhappy face. "Hard day at school?" he asked, taking a minute sip of coffee. It was scalding hot, black and strong. Just the way he liked it.

"No, school was fine. Aidan and I had words this morning, you know, a sibling thing." _And you haven't called me lately._

"Don't have any personal experience with a sibling thing, but I got the general gist of them from watching the Beldens," he said lightly. "Not a pretty thing to see."

"Yeah, well, I guess I was giving him grief about Trixie." She sighed heavily, looked outside the plate glass window at the passers-by. "We got into it and he said some pretty nasty things."

Dan reached out one slender finger and stroked her hand that was holding onto her cup like it was a lifeline. Startled, she looked up at him. "I know you want to make it better for him, Kait, but he has to find his own way."

"I know that Dan," she burst out. "But I'm friends with you all, and I know it's uncomfortable with Aidan hanging around looking at her like she's his personal ice cream sundae. Jim's going to end up punching his lights out, and I don't blame him."

Dan took another experimental sip of his coffee, and blew on it. "Yeah, Jim does have that redheaded temper thing going on. But seriously Kaitlin, I really don't think Jim would do actual physical harm to your brother unless Aidan had his hands on Trixie. He's too honorable to beat somebody up over a look. If he did that, half the guys in Manhattan would be sporting black eyes."

"Yeah. Well." She just sighed again and stared into her cup, as if the swirls of whipped cream were tea leaves that could reveal the way to penetrate Aidan's thick skull.

"I went on a ride-along last night," he told her. He wasn't going to say anything. After all, he didn't really owe her any explanations. But seeing her through the window, eyes so sad and far away, he had to go to her. He wanted to erase that sorrow, to bring back the sparkle in her eyes and tilt to her delectable mouth.

"What's that?"

"I rode in a squad car with a couple of police officers for a few hours. The school arranges it. It was quite an interesting experience. Of course, I had to sign 16 zillion liability forms first, in blood, and promise my first born."

She had to laugh, and a little frozen piece of her heart melted. He was busy. It wasn't that he was pulling away. He was just _busy_. She took a sip of her drink, leaving a whipped cream moustache that she licked off with the pink tip of her tongue. "Tell me."

As the blood rushed from his head to points southward, Dan continued. "It all started down in the Village with a guy dressed in a vampire cape and little else…"

**Meanwhile, at the boys' apartment…**

Mart glanced at his watch. Dan was not expected home for a couple hours, and Brian had a shift at the clinic tonight. That left the apartment free for a nice little liaison with his best girl, the lovely and talented Diana Lynch.

He just wished she would stop talking about Jim and Trixie and getting married. He did _want_ to marry Di. Honestly, he did. He _wanted_ to marry her when she was six and he was seven and she planted that little kiss on his cheek to thank him for helping her up when Trixie salaamed so gracefully during recess, taking Di down with her. Of course, his nascent gentlemanly instincts did not lend themselves to helping his hapless sister up.

But, gleeps, as Trix would say, not marriage right _now_. It may be what Jim and Trixie wanted, be right for them, but he still had three years of college ahead and Di just started. Di was talking about it incessantly, sighing over Jim's liplock with Trix in full view of the entire student body and many teachers at Sleepyside High. The romance. The proposal. All these little _hints_.

He just _couldn't_ think about marriage right now. The field he was studying, Broadcast Journalism, was extremely competitive and it was bad enough he zoned out every so often dreaming of her, especially when she was back in Sleepyside and at the mercy of all those two-legged wolves.

But now… now she was a short walk across the hall and they were free of the constraints imposed by both sets of parents. He was looking forward to a good, solid year at school and with his lovely Diana…and actually being able to use a _bed_ instead of the clubhouse, the preserve or clandestine meetings in Sunny's stable. He was tired of removing straw from places he never thought straw could adhere to.

He pushed #1 on his cell phone, and waited for her to answer. She should be on her way home now. All she needed was to make a little detour across the hall.

"Hi Mart. What's up?"

He paused, a beat, before he decided not to answer that loaded question. "Want to make a little pit stop over here before you go to your apartment?" He pitched his voice lower, hoped it sounded seductive.

She rolled her eyes. "Can't, baby. I'm off to the computer lab with my CGI-design partners. We were handed our first project today, a major one. After that we'll probably stop and grab a pizza somewhere." Mart heard the rumble of deep laughter in the background.

A guy. She was with a guy? "CGI?" he squeaked out.

"Yeah, we are assigned to teams. I have Frank, Mitch and Kristen on my team. Catch you later, babe." He didn't need to know Frank was married, Mitch was gay, and Kristen was extremely Goth. Just let him simmer in it for a while. She smiled, a bit evilly, and sauntered off to the lab. Take _that_, Mart Belden.

Mart sat there, looking at his phone. She was with other guys. She just blew him off like a piece of lint on a black suit.

As he buried his head under the sofa cushion, his only thought was that maybe this year wouldn't be so great after all.

**Back at Trixie & Jim's…**

Jim was methodically washing the few dishes they had, rinsing and setting them in the rack. Once he was finished washing, he would dry them by hand and put them away. No sense in using the dishwasher for just the two of them.

Because of the mindlessness of the chore, his nimble brain was buzzing. Like a dog worrying a bone, he couldn't help going back to that flash of something in Trixie's eyes at dinner. And then there were his very private thoughts.

With the AP courses, summer courses and prior semesters chocked full of so many credits his head sometimes swam, his undergraduate work would be completed in December, although he would actually _officially_ graduate with his class in May. Next stop on the college train…his Masters, and then a short hop to his PhD. He was already accepted to Graduate School; had no money worries but…there was an underlying restlessness.

Not about his rather quick marriage to the woman he loved almost from the first time he laid eyes on her. No, it was something else, something he couldn't even talk to her about yet, because it was all mixed up in his head. He needed to wrap his arms around the major adjustments he was thinking of making in his and Trixie's future, to make sure he was doing the right thing and not the expedient one.

Shelving the thoughts for now as he shelved the bowls, he meandered out to the living room, picking up his bookbag as he did so. Trixie was comfortably ensconced on the couch, the tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips as she concentrated on the book in her lap.

"How's it going, baby?" he asked her, as he sat down next to her. He knew how much she hated homework in high school. There was even more of it in college.

"Okay today, Jim. Just some introductory stuff. It's nothing too brain-numbing yet. I'll get to that tomorrow, in English 101," she frowned, closing the book.

"Well, you'll eventually have to write reports and things, even for Locard," he replied. "A little practice never hurts." He began pulling his own books out.

"Speaking of the Locard Society," Trixie picked up the box at her side, "Now that I've been a responsible adult and finished my homework, I get to open the mysterious package from the semi-secret society." The last few words were whispered like she was imparting top-secret information.

Jim watched as Trixie tore into the box with little decorum. There were some papers, the first one looking like a letter, and then a set of instructions. The last item she pulled out was the gleaming aluminum laptop, its front embossed with the logo of the society, and a small metal plaque with _Trixie Frayne_ engraved on it. Trixie ran a gentle hand over it, index fingers tracing the letters.

The letter was from Dr. Brietling, welcoming her again, and provided her temporary password to access TLS intranet. He also provided her email address, .net. Her sapphire eyes widened at the next paragraph…they had provided her with a cold case, nothing too gruesome, to review and let them know her thoughts. There was no due date, like homework; she was instructed to take her time and organize her thoughts. There were no wrong answers, no wrong questions. Dr. Brietling also provided a gentle reminder to email her schedule at her earliest possible convenience.

Trixie opened the laptop and pressed the 'on' button. She signed on using an employee ID number as instructed in the letter, and the temporary password. The machine prompted her to change her password, and she glanced up at Jim. Knowing that passwords needed to be complex in order to be secure, she contemplated several. Flicking another glance at Jim, she typed in DrWdsmn7, and sighed happily. Dreamy Woodsman, for Jim's undoubted expertise in all things natural, and 7 for his birth month.

The laptop booted up to a screen with the Locard Society logo as the wallpaper. There were icons for Trixie's email, web browser and the tantalizing one simply named "Case Files." Fingers hovered, itching, over the case files icon, but moved instead to email, where she dutifully copied her schedule and sent it off to Will and Stephen.

She really, really wanted to click on that icon. The one that would start her internship officially. The one that meant she was being treated as an equal by people that had far more experience and knowledge than she. And they wanted her!

Jim was absently stroking her leg as he was reading, much as one would stroke a pet cat. The feather light touch was distracting her, making her just that tiny bit breathless. She logged off the laptop, leaned over and set it down on the coffee table, and directed her wide blue eyes to her Dreamy Woodsman.

She watched silently as he rubbed his eyes and put down his book, then ran his hand through his thick red hair. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, relaxing.

"Did you ever have fantasies about us, Jim?" She had no idea where that came from, but her active and imaginative brain dictated she speak first and think later.

Jim sat bolt upright, staring at her, his hand ceasing its unconscious petting of her leg. "_What_ did you say, Trixie?" He must have heard her wrong.

"I asked if you ever had fantasies. About us." Her big blue eyes were round and oh, so innocent looking. Suddenly, she found she really wanted to know the answer to that question.

_Was there a correct answer to this question?_ Jim thought sarcastically. He scrubbed his face with both hands. "Um, you mean about getting married and stuff?" Yup. Try to put off the inevitable as long as possible.

"Well, yeah, but more like, you know, sex stuff."

That was his Trixie. Right to the hard part of the question. "Trix, you know, I'm just a normal guy. Of course I had fantasies about us." He silently sent up a prayer that she would be satisfied with that.

Her eyes lit from within, and she pulled her long legs under her, kneeling on the couch and grabbing his arm. "Really! So, describe some of them." Her cheeks pinked a bit.

He had the strongest urge to simply bang his head against the coffee table. A flood of red rushed to his face. "You know, they're kind of embarrassing, Trix. Just normal teenage guy stuff."

"You shouldn't be embarrassed Jim. I'm your wife. We see each other naked. I'll tell you some of mine," she cajoled, batting her long lashes at him.

Jim was startled. _Find out some of _Trixie's _fantasies? Well, it won't hurt to share._ "Okay," he agreed. At exactly the same time, they both said, "You go first."

"My question," Trixie laughed. "_You_ go first."

"I used to fantasize that one night when you were sleeping over with Honey, you'd creep into my room after everyone was asleep," he began, looking at his hands, vibrant red creeping onto his cheeks. "And magically your flannel pjs would morph into one of those little sexy sets, I don't know what they're called. My doorknob would turn, real slow, and then you'd walk in and I'd be surprised when you locked the door behind you, shocked at what you had on. You'd turn to me with this sweet, sexy smile and creep on over to my bed, holding a finger in front of your lips like 'hush, Jim.' Then you'd slide your hands up my chest," he said, a little hoarsely, "and we'd end up tangled in my bed. For a long, long time. Your turn."

Trixie's eyes had dilated; her breath was coming a bit shallowly. "Okay, Studly. I'd come across you chopping wood for the clubhouse with your shirt off and all sweaty and muscle-ly, and looking so hot and supple. I'd ask you if you wanted a cold drink and you'd smile at me and say, yes, there's some in the clubhouse. We'd go in, and I'd get you a cold bottle of water from the cooler, and you'd run it across your forehead," Trixie brushed her hand slowly across Jim's forehead, "Like this, with your eyes closed. Then you would look at me, so hot and steamy, and go lock the door. And the next thing we'd _both_ be sweaty and naked on the table in the Clubhouse."

During her tale, Trixie had straddled Jim's lap and her lips were inches from his. "I was 15 when I wanted you in my bed, Trixie," Jim admitted hoarsely, his hot breath fanning across her face.

"And I was 13 when I wanted you in mine," she whispered against his lips, a smile curving her mouth, as he followed her down to the comfy cushions of their sofa. "Damned hormones!"

**At the Girls' Apartment…**

Honey closed her laptop and sighed. Di called to let her know she was grabbing a pizza with some classmates. Trixie and Jim were probably ripping each other's clothes off. Brian was working, like usual. God only knew what Mart and Dan were up to.

She realized she was lonely. Here she was, in a city full of millions of people, and not only all of them, but the Bob-Whites, too, and she was lonely. She gave in for a few minutes, to a Honey Wheeler pity party, and made a decision. She would not feel sorry for herself; she would make lemonade as the old saying went. She'd grab a sandwich at the deli around the corner and make sure she got a big, stinky garlic pickle. She grabbed her purse and carefully locked the door behind her.

Downstairs, stepping out of the elevator, she was nearly mowed down by a tall man, who quickly grabbed her arms to steady her.

"Sorry about that, I didn't see…Honey?"

Honey's topaz eyes flicked up into Aidan's shocked stare. "Oh, Aidan! Hi! No need to apologize, I think we were both preoccupied."

Aidan was very surprised to see Honey by herself, and a little concerned, too. "Where are you going?" he asked, hoping she wouldn't tell him, in her tactful way, to mind his own business.

She grimaced. "Di is grabbing some food with a couple of classmates and Brian is working late." No need to mention Jim and Trixie to Aidan. He could probably figure that one out for himself. "I thought I'd grab a sandwich at the deli."

"Want some company? Kaitlin is still out and I'm rather hungry myself." She shouldn't be walking around by herself, Aidan rationalized.

Honey graced him with a dazzling smile. "That'd be wonderful, Aidan. I need to warn you though, I'm going for a garlic pickle chaser." She linked her arm through his as they exited the building.

He bent his head and smiled back. "Well, then, we'll just have to make it two garlic pickle chasers so we can stand to breathe on each other," he teased.

Neither one paid any attention to the man so carefully framing them in the lens of his camera.

**Back at the Abandoned Gas Station…**

Donna stumbled and crawled to the makeshift toilet, almost tipping it over. She was strangely uncoordinated, having an extremely difficult time pulling the white tights down, and then pulling them back up. She drank the water, just a little. She couldn't eat at all.

She heard him come into the garage, heard his soft footfalls. The light became brighter, hurt her eyes. He loomed over her, sunglasses in place still.

"Did you have a nice nap, Becky?" he asked, quite conversationally, as if they were good friends and he was concerned about her.

"I'm not Becky, my name is Donna and I'm just a student." Her words came out slurred, slowly. "Please. I'm not Becky."

He crouched down to her level and removed his sunglasses, setting them carefully on the floor. She looked into those dead, colorless eyes and _knew_. Knew her life was to be measured in minutes. "Of course you're Becky," he said in the same pleasant tone. "_All _ of you are Becky."

The last thing she saw, with her own eyes, was the light flashing off the scalpel. There was unspeakable pain, the coppery smell of blood, and the last thing she heard in the utter darkness where there once the light dwelled, was the sound of her own, almost inhuman, screams.

A/N: Gracias to my fantastic editors, Mylee and Grandma Cindy, who never ask why I have this fascination for J/T.


	9. Tabloid Trix Chapter 8

Tabloid Trix Chapter 8

**In a Small Mid-Western Town…**

The older man in the barbershop glanced again at the bus stop across the street. The oddly dressed woman had been sitting there for a couple hours already, not moving. He went back to saddle-soaping the worn leather chair, but his thoughts returned again and again to the bus stop and its occupant. He peeped at her again; decided to do the neighborly thing. Maybe she was in some kind of trouble.

He left the cool, air-conditioned comfort of the shop and slowly walked across the dusty street. For some reason, the hair on the back of neck stood at attention. He began to rethink his chivalrous impulse; maybe she was one of those druggie heads or something. "Ma'am?" he called out. "Is everything all right?"

She didn't answer.

He crept closer. "Ma'am?" Close enough now to smell that awful, coppery odor and the scent of death overlaying it all. To hear the hum of the flies that were converging to start the cycle of life that only resulted from death.

And then he saw her face, and spent the next several minutes losing the breakfast his wife so carefully made, right there in the middle of Main Street.

**Back at Cop College…**

Trixie was staring at Professor Masse. This was getting ridiculous. He took every opportunity to throw tiny, sarcastic digs at her and at Honey. So much so, that in the few classes they had so far, the rest of the class was beginning to notice. Some students, taking their cue from the professor, began to get a little snarky with them also. Mob mentality at its finest, Trixie snorted.

She peeked over at Honey, who was pale and shaking. He had just raked her over the coals about some small thing. It was getting so Honey got a stomachache every time she had to go to Masse's class. Since they had his class four times a week, she wondered if her best friend would end up with an ulcer. This would _never_ do.

Luke Masse was expounding on some facet of the criminal mind as if he were the most learned guru and they, his adoring acolytes. Trixie found him to be pompous, a braggart and a bully. There was no exchange of information in this class. There was only his voice, droning on and on relating everything to 'his time on the force,' as if he single-handedly was responsible for the capture and successful prosecution of every criminal in Los Angeles.

"…criminal intent. Right, Mrs. Frayne?" He chuckled gleefully to himself. He knew she wasn't paying attention. She was slanting glances at her pale friend, obviously concerned. Really, he was only helping them to drop the class more expediently. Drop the class and get out of the college to make room for students who would _really_ make a difference.

Trixie leveled a laser-blue stare directly into his eyes. "I don't agree at all, Professor Masse," her tone making a mockery of his name. "You are making a huge generalization about criminal intent. _That_ has to be proved in court. A person may perform a criminal act without having a premeditated or criminal intent. That's why Murder One or Capital Murder can be so hard to prove, and why there is a category of manslaughter or crimes of passion." She cupped her chin in her hand and smiled at him. It was not one of her pretty, dazzling smiles she graced her friends with. No, it was dangerous, and mocking, like she had his number.

He was actually speechless for a moment. How _dared_ she challenge him in his classroom, the little gold-digger? "Oh, and you have so much experience with criminal intent," he sneered while the class sniggered.

Bright red warning flags burned in Trixie's cheeks and Honey's pretty lips bowed into an 'O' shape. She readied herself for the explosion that would surely be forthcoming.

Instead, Trixie's steady, strong voice rang out with conviction. "Why _yes_, Professor Masse, I do believe that I…and Honey here, do. After all," she snarked, "We _are_ responsible for putting arms dealers and counterfeiters, kidnappers, and let's see, international jewel thieves – among others - behind bars. We have worked with such diverse agencies as the Secret Service, NYPD and even the FBI. Not just a police force in _one_ jurisdiction." The latter was a direct jab at him.

There was an audible gasp from the class, and the buzzer on Professor Masse's desk, signaled the end of the period. "If you can give me a few moments after class, Mrs. Frayne," he gritted out.

"Honey, I'll meet you at the Union," Trixie whispered, and lightly squeezed Honey's limp hand. "Grab me a cold water."

As the class filed out, many found little errands that required their attention right outside the classroom. After the last student exited, Luke Masse clicked the door shut. Grinding his teeth, he turned to face Trixie Frayne.

**At a construction site in Newark NJ…**

Jim drank greedily from the icy bottled water he snagged out of the cooler and surveyed the construction site. Across the street, a small crowd milled, watching the volunteers from Habitat for Humanity construct several small houses where a burned-out section of pre-war row houses once stood. Even the sturdy red bricks of Brick City, as most of the locals called Newark, were no match for the ravages of a meth lab fire.

He leaned against the door frame, silhouetted against the construction. Paul Trent snapped the picture, sure it was a winner. Dusty construction boots, long legs drawing the eye up to narrow hips; a worn leather tool belt slung across them. A sweaty tee shirt, plastered to his abs and muscular arms; his broad chest showcased and the handsome, slightly dirty face framed by the hard hat. The women readers would go nuts for it. Heir to a multi-billionaire gets down and dirty with the common folk, performing charity work in a dying New Jersey city. You couldn't make up stuff this good.

Jim rubbed a large hand on the back of his neck, and gazed at the little kids watching as the houses went up as if by magic. _Where are their mothers or fathers? Who is taking care of them?_ He sighed, the restless feeling overwhelming him again. There was that, and his Trixie-radar had gone off in a big way lately. Something was bothering her, bothering Honey, too. He had walked in on them discussing something in the kitchen, so intent on their discussion they hadn't heard him enter the apartment. He looked in both of their solemn faces, asked them what was wrong.

"Um, just some school stuff, Jim," Honey responded, too glibly. No matter how gently he poked and prodded at them, he was unable to get a straight answer. They knew it, and they knew he knew it.

He wiped his face again with the back of his arm, picked up the hammer and began the task of nailing the 2 x 6 boards in place. Maybe there really was nothing wrong and he was misreading the situation. Maybe the unsettled feeling he was wrestling with was affecting his perception of the world around him. He sighed heavily. It was time to talk to Trixie. And he was not sure what his new wife would think of him when he finished.

**At the Boys' Apartment…**

Martin Belden was _not_ having a good day. Not only did he forget to bring a book to the only class he had today, but Di didn't get home from her pizza and computer lab whatever a couple of days ago until late. _Very_ late, in Mart's estimation and he knew this because, well, to be honest, he was spying – although he tried to rationalize it by just making sure she was getting home okay.

And although she lived a mere hallway away, he hadn't been graced by her presence in a few days. Oh, they talked and texted each other, but she was always busy. Busy, busy, busy. How could a damn freshman be that busy?

He was sitting in the kitchen, staring morosely at his cell phone, when Brian came in and straddled the chair across from him. "Something wrong with your phone?"

Mart looked up quickly. Brian looked like he felt. "What's the matter with you?" he snapped out. Brian looked, quite frankly, like hell warmed over.

Crossing both arms over the back of the chair, Brian leaned his chin against them. "I'm freakin' tired." Warming to his subject, he began to list his problems to an astonished Mart. "I'm sick and tired of studying all the time. All I do is study and work, study and work. And then when I want to see Honey, oh no, _she_ can't see me. She's having coffee with somebody from her Literature class. I don't get that much free time and…" Brian listened helplessly to his whining voice. What the hell was the matter with him?

Mart sat back in his chair, mouth open. Brian was the quiet, mostly uncomplaining one. To hear him with that petulant pout in his voice was, well, so completely out of character, Mart wondered if Loyola whatsherface was back in town and feeding him appleseed salad.

Brian went on, knowing that his brain was not connected to his mouth, which kept running. "I thought it would be different with Honey here. I mean damn, she's right across the hall. I feel like I'm seeing less of her than when she was back in Sleepyside."

Mart leaned his elbow on the table and cupped his chin. "I feel your pain, Bri." Boy, did he ever. Just thinking about his delectable Di a few door clicks away really got his juices flowing. Yup. They were flowing and damming up somewhere. This couldn't be healthy.

"I haven't seen Di either," Mart commiserated, blowing out a frustrated breath.

Just then, Dan popped into the kitchen, surprised to see Mart and Brian sitting glumly at the table. "'sup, guys?" Peeking into the refrigerator, he had a choice between a left-over Chinese take-out container, which he suspected may have been sitting there since last May, or some leftover pizza from yesterday. Pizza won, hands down.

"You guys seeing Honey and Di tonight?" Dan took a big bite out of the slice. Cold pizza was even better than hot pizza, in his opinion. Chewing thoughtfully, he noted the almost identical winces on the faces of the Belden boys. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Yeah, well, I think paradise is in 1406," Brian said bitterly, referring to Jim and Trixie's apartment.

Dan's black eyebrows nearly crawled up to his hairline in surprise. Brian Belden? Crabby and dare he say it, jealous of his _sister_? Dan didn't remember falling into an Alternate Universe at any point during the day, so he went with his next best thought. He needed to find out why.

As he opened his mouth to give voice to the many questions that were lining up inside his mouth, Mart decided it was his turn to vent. "Oh, you mean Roger and Jessica Rabbit?"

"Bill and Coo?" Brian sneered.

"Yeah, well I can just see the title of their memoir: _Insatiable,_" Mart snarked.

Brian and Mart Belden were snarking about their _sister's_ love life? The same Brian Belden who was relating to a horror-stricken Mart how he went to return something last week and heard them right though the apartment door? The one at the wedding who couldn't even say the word _sex_ in mixed company? Dan grinned widely and sat back to enjoy the show.

"…beds and bedrooms for that sort of thing," Brian continued. "God, if I was legal age I would've had a drink after hearing that."

Dan interrupted and said in a mild voice. "Jim says he and Trixie don't have sex," he began, when Mart snorted.

"Not have sex? What the hell _do_ they have in there, the Flying Wallendas?" he demanded.

Dan held up a hand. "_If_ you'll allow me to complete my sentence, Mart," he said, and watched Mart color up. "Jim told me that he and Trixie do not have sex. That's for the baser animals," he grinned at the twin expressions of distaste on the Belden siblings. "He and Trixie make luvvve."

"Get the insulin ready, I'm going into sugar shock," deadpanned Brian. "Damn Jim and all this romance stuff. If he wasn't my best friend, I'd smack him upside the head."

"That's all I hear from Di lately. How romantic it was that Jim couldn't wait to propose in New York City like he planned, how romantic the wedding was, aren't Trixie and Jim so lucky," Mart batted his sandy lashes.

Brain scrubbed one large hand across his curly black locks and groaned. "You too? That's all I practically hear from Honey. Ohhh Jim this, oooohhh Trixie that," he said in a falsetto. "It's enough to make you want to join the He-Man Women Haters' Club."

"Which brings us full circle to my original question," Dan butted in. "Are you guys seeing Honey and Di later?"

"No!" Brian shouted, misery etched in his face. "They're too busy, damn it. Always…too busy."

Dan slapped his hand on the table, making the others jump. "So that's it! You're feeling neglected," he crowed. "Geez, guys, don't you remember your first years in college? Brian, you didn't even come home until the November Homecoming Ball, and you groused about that. Same for you, Mart. So the girls are getting used to college. Deal with it. They had to when we all left."

Mart stared down at his hands, raised them up to clutch at his hair. "I think it's more than that, Dan. I have…a feeling."

Brian, who had been inspecting his fingernails like they held universal truths, suddenly brightened and smiled at Dan. "I've got an idea," he said slowly." Dan would hate this idea. Absolutely hate it. But hey, one for all and all for one, right?

"Why don't you ask the girls what's up with the attitudes lately," he continued, pointing at Dan. "You're not dating either one of them. They'll open up to you." What a great idea!

Dan leaned back so far in his chair, appalled, that he almost went backwards. The front of the chair snapped smartly against the granite floor as he righted himself. "Me? No way!" he began. "Why don't you two lamebrains just ask them yourselves instead of all this whining and subterfuge?"

"Oh, god no, Dan," Mart muttered. "If we ask them we'll be in more hot water than we are now."

"Got that right, Mart." Brian took up the gauntlet again. "If we have to _ask_ them what's wrong then they'll get mad because we don't _know_ what's wrong without _asking_. I'm surprised you don't know this, Dan. It's in the handbook."

"What handbook? The _Your Best Male Friends are Losing Their Marbles Handbook_?" Dan rolled his eyes heavenward and asked for strength.

"No, whatever handbook they give women at birth that has all those stupid relationship rules in them. Like a man has to know why a woman is angry at him, even if he has no clue at all. Then he has to say I'm sorry, even if it isn't his fault. And if it is his fault, the man has to give jewelry."

Dan was howling with laughter at this point after Mart's somewhat convoluted reasoning. "Yeah, nothing says I'm sorry for flirting with a beautiful blonde ice skater better than an ID bracelet."

"You gonna help us or not?" Brian inquired, not at all amused by Dan's hysterical reaction to Mart.

Wiping his eyes, Dan looked down at the table, hoping the repressed laughter would not bubble up to the surface again. His lips twitching nonetheless, he had to ask, "Why don't you ask your sister? I'm sure she knows already if there really is something wrong."

"Yeah, and never hear the end of it. Ask Trixie? Not on your life." Mart said firmly. "C'mon man, you gonna help some fellow Bob-Whites or what?"

Dan shrugged his shoulders, looking into the earnest, expectant faces of two of his best friends. Turning his palms upward, he shrugged again. "Okay. I may live to regret this, but I will try to suss them out. No promises, though." A crafty look stole over his face. "And you guys owe me B-I-G."

**In Professor Masse's Classroom…**

Professor Luke Masse clicked the door shut, turned, and was surprised to find Trixie Frayne waiting by his desk. He figured she'd be cowering in her chair, where he could loom over her and intimidate her. He never expected the feisty blonde to meet him head-on on the home field.

Anyone who knew Trixie well would be wary of the bright red flags of color on her cheeks. She was in a towering temper, and barely had it leashed. As Masse opened his mouth to speak, she went on the offensive. "Just what is your problem with Honey and me?" she demanded. "Since day one of class you have had it in for us."

He strode over to her, standing a mere foot away. "You are insubordinate, Mrs. Frayne," he began, when she interrupted him again.

"_I'm_ insubordinate? You treat us like idiots, Professor. So much so the rest of the class is noticing it, and some of the, shall we say, brown-nosers, are starting to follow your example."

He looked into her furious blue eyes. "I don't treat you or your rich friend any differently than any other student," he ground out. But he knew that wasn't the truth. He dropped his eyes, unwilling to face hers. "Maybe you are just not cut out for the nitty-gritty of law enforcement if you can't take a little criticism."

Trixie's eyes widened with comprehension. "You dislike us because Honey's family is wealthy, as is my husband," she looked at him, disdain filling her face.

Professor Masse was stung by the contempt in her face. "No, I don't like rich little girls who don't know the meaning of hard work taking up valuable space in my class, when I could have two serious students in here. We both know you'll never last another week," he sneered. "Why don't the both of you withdraw now and go to Smith or Vassar or one of those hoity-toity schools for debutantes?"

Trixie actually took a step towards him, standing very close, and aiming twin blue lasers into his surprised countenance. "You know less than nothing if you think that about Honey and me," she stated calmly. "Unfortunately for you and for us, we have to stay in this class because of our schedules. Don't think this gives you the right to continue this harassment, because you will be not be the winner in this little game, Professor."

"So says the woman with the Wheeler billions behind her."

"This has _nothing_ to do with my in-laws, Professor Masse." Trixie picked up her bag. "This little contest will be between you and me, and frankly, I play to win." She tossed those energetic blonde curls and sashayed out of the room.

He said nothing, but slammed his fist on the desk. She may have bested him this time in words, but he saw the flash of gold on her lapel. The bitch was wearing one of the Locard Society pins. He knew the society would frown on some brash bimbo wearing their logo like the latest fashion accessory. That pin meant something in the law enforcement world, something that she was making a mockery of.

Dr. Brietling would be so appreciative to be contacted and apprised of this little tidbit. Luke Masse grinned. A game with Trixie Frayne? He had the winning move under his belt already.

A/N: I'm sending Jim over to give Mylee and Grandma Cindy a great big kiss for being such wonderful editors!


	10. Tabloid Trix Chapter 9

Tabloid Trix Chapter 9

Trixie let herself in to the quiet apartment, placing her bag down and leaning against the door. Skootching her head back, she cast her eyes towards heaven and blew out a large breath. It had been _quite_ a day.

She ran a restless hand through her blonde curls, walking slowly into the kitchen. Jim was over in Jersey; he would be back in time to grab a bite at the Union and speed to his night class. She was on her own, at least for the next several hours.

Truth to tell, she was rather happy she was alone. One look at her face would send her overprotective husband into overdrive, and he would end up extracting the tale from her of Professor Masse's cavalier treatment of her and his sister. She idly thought that Jim was definitely going into the wrong field. He would excel as an interrogator. Opening the large refrigerator, Trixie stared at the contents, but her busy mind was conjuring up Jim's reaction if he should get wind of professor Masse's little 'tude problem.

It wasn't pretty. And she had no wish to bail her husband out of jail.

Nothing in the fridge screamed "Eat Me!" to her; she grabbed a cold water and shut the door. No real homework, either. Trixie wandered back into the living room; she was out of sorts and missing Jim. She briefly considered calling Honey, but quashed that idea. Honey was just as irritable as she was.

_Especially_ after they met at the Union and Trixie related her conversation with Professor Masse. For once in her life, Honey wanted to call her father and have him use his influence to do…something. Anything. Her topaz eyes flashed with anger, and Trixie was secretly thrilled. An angry Honey was a hell of a lot better than a sick, victimized Honey.

They agreed to go through a few more classes; see what happened. If things didn't improve, or worsened, they would go to the Dean of Students. It was not an action they took lightly, but their careers were on the line here.

Trixie's eyes lit on the laptop from Locard. Jim wasn't home; now was the time to look into that magic folder named "Case Files." Logging onto the Locard intranet, she opened her first case. The folder revealed several documents and video files. She clicked on the one titled "Synopsis."

The case concerned a well-off couple, Jerome and Brenda Harper, living in a small town in Oregon. Jerome Harper was a respected businessman, operating a successful real-estate agency; he was also on the town council and taught Bible class on Sundays. Brenda was his second, trophy wife. Bleached blonde, big boobs, toothy smile. And much, much younger.

Micki Harper, the first wife, made out pretty well in the divorce, which was described as amicable. Trixie snorted her opinion of that. _If she ever caught Jim fooling around, well, what happened next wouldn't be described as amicable._

Harper had two adult children, and an infant daughter with his current wife. He maintained cordial relationships with his adult children, while outrageously spoiling Brenda and his new daughter. They hired a Swedish au pair girl to care for Vanessa while he took his wife on lavish vacations or threw extravagant parties for the socially connected.

A couple of years into the relationship, the real estate market was tanking because of the recession, and Harper developed severe gastrointestinal problems. Brenda Harper, however, had not slowed down her profligate spending habits, and apparently, Harper did not have the cojones to set boundaries for his young, pretty wife.

As the market worsened, Harper's stomach problems became acute. He began to suffer from dizzy spells, shortness of breath and a general malaise. After suffering a several seizures, he was hospitalized. While undergoing a battery of tests, he suffered a massive seizure and finally died. The attending physician listed the manner of death as natural and the cause of death, digestive disease.

Micki Harper, the first wife, went to the police and demanded that there be an investigation of the death. Brenda Harper produced a will that left everything to her and Vanessa, and _nothing_ to the adult children. Not only did Brenda inherit the faltering business, but a two million dollar personal insurance policy, all Harper's personal properties, and a key employee insurance policy worth well over ten million.

The police, while sympathetic to Micki's concerns, declined to investigate a death the physicians had determined as natural. It was a story as old as time; out with the old, in with the new. Micki Harper hired a private investigator, who did dig up a few interesting facts.

Brenda Harper was not quite the faithful, grieving widow she was portraying. In fact, she was partying it up in Cabo with the latest in a long line of young, virile, handsome lovers she entertained before and after her marriage to Harper. And the will that left his entire estate to her was signed just a few days before his death. The insurance companies had assigned their own investigators to the case, and were balking at paying off the policies. A court case was slowly wending its way through the judicial system.

Trixie clicked on the video links. The private eye and the insurance investigators had met and compared notes, and thought the whole thing was quite hinky. They had filmed interrogations they initiated with the key players, and Trixie concentrated on the grainy videos.

Micki Harper was angry. The questioners were pretty hard on her, but she maintained that the divorce was amicable. She was a realist, she said. Why spend the rest of her life pining after a middle-aged fool whose Barbie doll would tire of him soon enough? Regarding his illness, well, Jerry Harper was rarely sick a day in his life, she snorted. She didn't care about herself, but her kids were supposed to get something. She produced a copy of the divorce decree that had certain stipulations in it regarding their children, and his child, Vanessa.

The will did not match any of it.

The adult kids, Jerry Jr. and Annie, were grieving the death of their dad as well as the heartbreak of realizing he made no provision for them. But, as they both explained in separate interviews, they'd rather have him back than all the money in the world.

The young widow was able to sniff and sob through her interview, with her lawyer present, but Trix noted the absence of _rea_l tears. When they pushed her about Cabo, she summoned up a hurt, little girl voice. "I need to heal, the house has so many memories," she crooned, sadly.

Finally, the au pair girl was interviewed. They had arranged for a translator at the interview, as the girl was very nervous and scared. No, they had a good marriage, she told them. Never had arguments, although the _make_, or husband, was tense about all the bills. But the missus was devoted to him, even bringing him his daily _mandelmjölk_ _skälva_, or nutty protein shake as the translator said, to the hospital.

Suspicion, innuendo, circumstantial evidence; a feeling by the family _and_ the investigators that something was _really_ wrong. But no _direct_ evidence, and the DA declined to prosecute. Yes, there were the civil lawsuits wending their way through the justice system, as the private investigator and the insurance investigators stated in their letter to Locard. But it wasn't enough. They _knew_ he was murdered. And they wanted justice for his family and the large insurance payouts to go to the correct recipients. Almost all states had a Slayer Statute, which prohibits a beneficiary from collecting insurance and other assets if the beneficiary murdered the insured. And they were damn sure the beneficiary murdered _this_ insured.

Trixie rubbed her eyes and sighed. She had moved from the living room to their office, with the matching desks at opposite ends of the room. The clock on the computer astonished her…three hours had gone by in a flash. Her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her the last time she actually ate was breakfast.

Dr. Brietling advised her to think about the case, organize it in her mind, and then ask the questions. She logged off of her work laptop, stood and stretched muscles unaccustomed to being still for more than ninety minutes. Jim should be home soon. She snatched an apple from the bowl of fruit displayed on the counter, and sat in the breakfast nook, turning the case over and over in her in her restless mind.

**Quantico, Va.**

The BAU, or Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, was on Twitter. Well why not? Hell, the rest of the world was. God, somebody was even tweeting the raid on Osama Bin Laden's stronghold as it happened. What better way to keep up with the pulse of the people?

A few agents were assigned, full-time, to monitor Twitter activity. A sudden flurry of tweets from a podunk town in the middle of the country caught one agent's eye. A woman, found at a bus stop, dressed bizarrely. Dead. Old Harry the Barber losing his breakfast right in the middle of Main Street there! And the woman…she had no eyes. What replaced them was a pair of large, blue doll eyes.

The agent sighed, printed off the tweets. He took the printout to his supervisor, who looked up from her desk in askance. "It looks like he struck again," the man said solemnly.

"Who?"

"The UNSUB that was nicknamed the Dollmaker."They stared at each other for a moment, as he handed her the paper. She moistened her lips and stood. "I'll let the Director know."

She walked swiftly through the beehive of cubicles and activity, several people peeping up to see her set face. She knocked on the door of her supervisor; was bidden entrance. Holding the papers aloft, she said but two words: "The Dollmaker."

The man behind the desk scrubbed his eyes as if to wash out the images forever imprinted there. As the woman handed him the sheets, all he could think was _Damn. He's out there hunting again._

**At the Girls' Apartment…**

Honey was sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. Something she never would do at home, but here…here she was free to be herself. Di was flipping through the channels pausing every now and again but then moving on.

"It's true," she sighed, giving Honey a woeful look. "900 million channels and all of them are playing the same six movies." Disgusted, she hit the off button. "Has Brian called you?"

"Only about 15 or 20 times," Honey giggled. "How about Mart?"

Diana rolled her violet eyes. "Lost count. Either they're _really_ horny or they _really_ miss us." She pictured her handsome blonde boyfriend, and admitted sheepishly, "I really miss him, too." She didn't add anything about the horny part. TMI.

"I think it's a little bit of both. Horniness and missing. But we have to stand strong, Di. Although," Honey's eyes got a far-away look, "Brian has a great bod."

"What's Trix up to?" Diana really did not want to think about Brian's body, which would lead her to thinking even more about _Mart's_ body. Or else she might be banging at his door at midnight, the hell with teaching him a lesson.

"I think Jim's probably on his way to their apartment now. He had a night class. She's probably either doing homework of looking at stuff the Locard society sent her."

"You know, we ought to have a Bob-White get together at least once a month. Make it like on a Friday night, say, the second Friday of the month. Anyone who is free could attend."

Honey warmed up quickly to the idea. "That's great, Di! We could have a pizza or Chinese, watch a movie, catch up. We could rotate the apartments, too, so everyone has a chance to host." She paused. "Maybe we can invite Aidan and Kaitlin."

Di chewed her bottom lip. "I don't know about that, Honey. I mean, Aidan was looking so longingly at Trix the other night, all I could do was hope that your brother didn't notice. Kaitlin's nice and all, and Dan _is_ dating her. But you know jealous Jim gets…" she trailed off.

"I had dinner with him the other night." Honey said, arching her brows and smiling faintly.

"Who, Jim?" Diana crinkled her nose. It wasn't like Honey hadn't had dinner 17 million times with her brother. Big whoop.

"No, silly. _Aidan._"

Diana's violet eyes widened with shock. "You. Had. Dinner. With. Aidan. Oh my god, Honey. Dinner." A gleam came into her fine eyes. "And _how_ did this occur? I can't imagine he called you up and asked you out."

Honey leaned back against the sofa and grinned. "_As if._ It was the night you were out with your CGI group. Brian was working, Trixie and Jim were doing, well, whatever they do that I don't want to even think about, and Mart and Dan were still at class, I think. I decided to go down to the deli and grab a sandwich and ran into Aidan. He decided to come with me, and we had a pretty nice time." Honey gathered her knees close to her chest and rested her chin on them. "It was kind of cute, actually. I don't think he wanted me to walk by myself."

Di leaned back and groaned. "Just what we need. Another overprotective male in our lives." A sly smile crossed her face. "And what, pray tell, did you two converse about?"

"Oh, a little bit of this," Honey said airily, waving with one hand, "and a little bit of that." She waved with the other.

"Hmmmm, let me guess," Diana mused. "All things _Trixie_?"

"Not so much. After all, I _am_ her sister-in-law. It's not like he's going to tell me he has the hots for her, or ask me if she liiiikes him." Honey grew a bit more sober. "He had some words with Kaitlin and felt bad. He didn't exactly tell me what was said, but using my superior detective skills, I kind of guessed she took him to task about his ummm…obvious admiration for Trix in front of us all."

Diana snorted daintily. "Admiration? They probably had to call in Stanley Steemer to get the drool stains out of the carpet."

Honey rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I really do think he's trying to get over his crush or whatever. He told me he went out a few times with Leigh Michaels back home. He was so cute about it, like it was _actual_ news. Obviously, the ins and outs of living in a small town have escaped him."

Diana nodded her head. "True, that. I almost expected _The Sun_ to run a front page article every time Mart and I had a spat. So, is he still seeing Leigh?"

"Nope. Too cheerleadery, he told me. Waving her pom-poms everywhere. I guess he's just not a pom-pom guy." The wicked glint in Honey's eyes caused Diana to collapse in gales of laughter.

"Okay then, Ms. Wheeler. Aidan and Kaitlin are in. But," she cautioned with a wink, "Any bloodshed is on you."

**Back at Crabapple Farm…**

Peter Belden set his reading glasses aside. _The Wall Street Journal_ was required reading for anyone dabbling in the wicked world of finance. Luckily for him, no one seemed too interested in taking over a small savings and loan in a rural New York town. He often suspected Matt Wheeler and Ed Lynch had a lot to do with that.

He went in search of his wife, surprised that she wasn't in the kitchen performing her sexy, homey chores. Really, she had to be the only woman in the country that made canning tomatoes in the heat of August look like the precursor to a spread in some skin magazine. He grinned at the thought. A naughty vivid vision of her flushed and glowing from the heat, slowly taking off one article of clothing at a time…just for him.

He bounded up the stairs, entering their bedroom. Strangely enough, she wasn't there. She wasn't in the upstairs bathroom. A small sob came from the direction of Trixie's old room. He pushed the door open, frowning. Helen rarely cried, yet there she was, sitting on the edge of one of Trixie's twin beds, with tears silently dripping down her face.

Peter crossed the room in two long strides, sitting beside her and gently wiping the tears with one shaking finger. "What's wrong, baby? Why are you crying?" He hated it when she cried. "Is it one of the kids?"

Helen looked at him with her drenched delphinium eyes, so much like Trixie's his heart constricted. "I miss her, Peter," she said, misery in her voice. "When they come to visit, they always stay up at the Manor House." She sniffled, leaning into his strong arms. "I miss them all, and the noise and endless hamburgers and even the darn kitchen door slamming shut every two minutes."

He bent his head and kissed her hair, his mouth curving into a gentle smile. "I miss them too, Helen. But this is exactly what we prepared them for – growing up, leaving the nest. Besides, we still have one chickadee left, even if he spends more time at the Lynches' house than over here."

"Ummm, Peter, Bobby's 12. Why do you suppose he's spending a lot of time there?" she asked wryly.

"Oh, God, no. Not yet. Girls. Can't you do the talk this time?" he groaned.

"Hey, I did my part with our girl." Her face crumpled again, remembering how she and Trixie had identical floods of vibrant red suffuse their cheeks during the obligatory mother-daughter talk.

"Tell you what. Why don't we put these old beds in the attic and buy a new queen-size bed and mattress for here? Redecorate a little. I bet Jim and Trixie would be happier to stay here then," he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "After all, twin beds went out with Lucy and Ricky."

She had to giggle at him, even through her tears, remembering _their_ first months of marriage. "That's a great idea, Peter. I'll go to Crimper's tomorrow and see what they have available."

"C'mon, then, let's go to our room." He pulled her to her feet and out the door. As she was turning to close it, a shudder ran down her spine. Mother's intuition. She couldn't tell Peter, not yet. But she felt it deep in her bones. _Something wicked this way comes._

**At Trixie & Jim's Apartment…**

Jim let himself in, a bit surprised and hurt that Trixie was not there like she usually was, opening the door before he even had a chance to put his key in the lock; throwing her arms around him like they were parted for years instead of hours.

After locking the door, he followed the light into the kitchen, placing his bag on the sofa as he passed. And there he found her, his peripatetic wife, leaned back against the cushions of the breakfast nook, sound asleep, slumped uncomfortably against the cushions.

Her head was slightly tilted to one side, blonde curls tumbling about. Her beautiful face was soft and so very young looking in repose, he felt his heart just swell with tenderness. Her full lips were slightly parted and the corners tilted up. Jim leaned back on one of the stools; these moments when her boundless energy flickered down to a low simmer were few and far between. He was content to sit for a minute and just imprint this charming picture into his brain.

_She was walking along a rocky beach in Oregon, alone, barefoot. Every so often the Pacific would wash up as far as her feet; the water was icy and she could feel the sand pulling away, being sucked back towards the sea._

_A man started walking with her. She wasn't afraid. She had a lot of questions for him. "They think you were murdered, Jerry," she opened with._

"_Well," he replied, "It's _your _dream. What do you think?" He had on a hospital gown, flapping in the breeze, and was holding a pair of slippers in his hand. _

"_I think you were a rat bastard for leaving your first wife and children for a Barbie doll."_

_He winced at that, then smiled, although the smile didn't reach his sad eyes. "Middle-age crisis. What can I say? I wasn't the first husband and I sure won't be the last."_

"_They think Brenda did it," Trixie said. "They think she killed you for the money. And that, my friend, means you weren't the first middle-aged husband killed by his young blonde bimbo for the money, nor will you be the last."_

"_Aha! So you do think she did it." He did a sort of lame victory dance._

_They stopped walking and faced each other. "Did she kill you, Jerry?"_

"_You know I can't tell you that," he gave her a weak grin. "You read the reports." He tapped her forehead with one cold finger. "It's all up here, waiting to be put together."_

"_Fat lot of help you are," Trixie snorted. The slippers dropped out of Jerry's hands and into the ocean, bobbing further and further out to sea._

_Jerry stared at the slippers, turned back to her. "Gotta go get my slippers, Trix, or else my feet will get cold." He started wading into the ocean, following the elusive objects into deeper and deeper water._

"_Jerry, wait," she shouted at his back. He was already up past his knees, and all she could see was his exposed back._

"_Don't worry, Trixie," he turned slightly and called back over the roar of the waves. The sky was darkening and the waves churning higher and higher. "I'm just going to get my slippers and have some of your Mom's Swedish Almond Bars." _

_A moment later, he disappeared under the green glass of a large wave, and Trixie watched in horror as it rushed towards her. The sand was holding her feet down, she couldn't move; she closed her eyes and braced for the impact of the icy water._

_Instead of a frigid embrace, it enfolded her in warmth and love, gently rocking her, making her buoyant. Instead of icy fingers, she could feel the soft stroking of the water's tendrils, just like…_

"Jim?" She opened up her eyes and looked directly into Jim's emerald gaze, just inches from her own. Instead of being cramped and stiff at the table where she fell asleep, she felt her pillow beneath her head and her body sinking into the softness of their bed. _Jim must have carried me to bed._

Jim's lips curved into a gentle smile as he peered into Trixie's soft, slumberous blue eyes. "You know what, Sleeping Beauty?" he whispered, his breath warm on her face. "When it's time for us to have a family, I want a half dozen little girls with blonde curls I can tug on," he tugged on his curl gently, "And cutest dimples and the prettiest blue eyes." He kissed each of her eyelids as he spoke. "And I can carry them to bed and tuck them in when they get sleepy, just like their mama."

The corners of Trixie's luscious mouth turned up. "And what if _I_ want a half dozen little boys with gorgeous red hair, emerald green eyes and lots of freckles to kiss?" she whispered back, stroking his hair, that one wave he never could tame.

"Well, then, I guess we'll just have to have an even dozen," he smiled against her lips before claiming them as his own.

**Somewhere in cyberspace…**

**TO:** .net

**FROM:** .edu

Dr. Brietling,

My name is Professor Luke Masse. I teach criminology at John Jay College. You may or may not remember me. I have written you several times regarding eligibility for membership in the Locard Society. I have also suggested that you may find it worthwhile to speak to some of my classes.

However, I am not communicating today about either of those issues. I have some urgent information about the misuse of a Locard Society Membership Pin. I would like to meet with you at your convenience to discuss this, rather than over the telephone or through email. This is a very sensitive issue I feel is best reviewed in person.

Please let me know the best time that we can meet and discuss this. You can reach me at 212-555-5785.

Luke Masse

**Montreal, Quebec, Canada**

His agent closed the deal on the house in Riviere-Des-Prairies for two million U.S. dollars. It was a newly built, Victorian-inspired red brick mansion, complete with swimming pool, huge solitary lot and access to the wooded areas of St. Helen's island right across the St. Lawrence.

His name was not mentioned on the deed. As far as anyone was concerned, the RJL Group purchased the edifice. His staff outfitted the interior to his specifications. If they wondered about their reclusive employer, talked lowly among themselves, he didn't know. Or care. All of it was part of the meticulously crafted persona he created: young, secretive genius inventor and investor. Rarely if ever photographed; but a huge benefactor of many charities and a supporter of the arts.

He pulled into the garage, stepped out of the vehicle and braced himself for the barrage of ill temper he knew Becky was going to fire his way once he opened the trunk. And of course, she did not disappoint, voicing the same outrage at being confined to the airless, dark space instead of riding up front with him, where she belonged.

He ran a slender hand through her blonde curls, easily lifting her scarred body. "I'm going to take you to your new room," he told her. "You'll feel better when you've had a chance to rest in comfort." He strode through the home and upstairs, not taking any note of the charming touches his decorators worked so hard to create.

He threw open the doors to a gorgeously female bedroom, decorated in white with counterpoints of gold and red. A huge canopied bed beckoned, filmy white curtains caught at the posts and the head of the bed stuffed with white ruffled pillows. French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the river, and there was a separate sitting room with the vanity mirror covered in a discreet white sheet. She couldn't bear to look at her ravaged face.

"My bedroom is just across the hall," he informed Becky, whose complaints had died down in delight at the ultra-feminine room. They both preferred the Victorian method of relationships. Everyone had their own rooms, and no one mentioned anything about the traffic in the hallway at night. It was terribly bad manners to do so.

Her eye was closing, and he walked to the French doors, throwing them open, looking at the island across from them. "You need to hurry," she said in a tired voice. "I'm falling apart."

"I know. I promised."

"The last one was close, darling. So close."

"Yeah." He nodded grimly. He had been unable to stop himself from cutting the delicate white skin of the last Becky. The red just looked so…artistic on her torso and legs. He didn't tell Becky. She would get so angry with him. But it was so _pretty_.

He continued to stare out at the river. He wondered briefly if the new firm he had looking into the whereabouts of his sister had any success. He knew she was alive somewhere; surprisingly, looking at his father's accounts, he realized dear old dad must have squirreled away lots of money for Jody. To escape.

His hand fisted against the frame of the door. He would find her, sooner or later, and she would be punished for her part in Becky's disfigurement. As usual, any thought of his sister stirred up the agitation; the longings that were getting harder to ignore. There were _lots_ of college girls on the island of Montreal. _Lots_ of petite Beckys to choose from. He turned to her and whispered, _"I'm going out to hunt." _The problem was he didn't know if he was hunting for her, or for himself.

A/N: A tip of the hat to my two wonderful editors, Mylee and Grandma Cindy. They keep me honest and on track.

_Stanley Steemer_ is the name of a mobile carpet cleaning company.


	11. Tabloid Trix Chapter 10

Tabloid Trix Chapter 10

Daniel Mangan looked up at the ceiling in his bedroom. Yup, it was still there. And he was still slugabed this morning. Unfortunately, he was alone.

Not that he couldn't have had company, of course. A couple of girls at school made it perfectly clear they wouldn't mind at all making a house call. His phone was full of numbers; all he had to pick was the name, the age, and the hair color. So then why was he staring at those little imperfections the ceiling paint revealed?

Dan liked women. All shapes, all sizes, all of them. And mostly, they liked him right back. He was fascinated by these delicate yet tough creatures; by the soft, silky smoothness of their skin; their scent; the way their hips swayed as they walked.

He tried to drum up some interest in his extensive repertoire. Really, he did. None of them had hair as black as a raven's wing, flirty grey-green eyes fringed with long lashes, or a sexy, raspy voice that wound its way into his gut and parked there. He could sum it up in two words: Kaitlin Mary McCourt. Well, okay, that was three, but who's counting?

_Damn_ it all. He didn't want this. This unsettled feeling when he wasn't with her, wondering who she was with, what she was doing. He wanted it light and easy and FUN.

He hadn't spoken to her since the day at Java City as his knight in shining armor instincts got the better of his self-preservation instincts when he saw Kaitlin there, all alone and so very unhappy. He teased her with a couple of funny stories from his ride-alongs; was gratified when the thunderclouds lifted from her brow.

As they were walking home, his cell phone rang. He was laughing so much, he answered it without thinking.

"_Hello?" There was a smile in his voice as he spoke into the small device._

"_Hi, Danny-boy, it's Elle."_

_The southern, dulcet tones at the other end wiped the smile off his face as he glanced sidelong into Kaitlin's laughing eyes._

"_Oh, hey Elle," he said softly, as if by speaking lowly Kait wouldn't hear. _

"_Are we still on for Friday?" Her honeyed voice once wrapped around his libido and squeezed mightily. But not now. Kaitlin could obviously hear the conversation, and there was a flash of something in her eyes, gone before he could identify it. She touched his hand; pantomimed taking the call, and scurried away. He tried not to let his eyes follow her or note her slumped shoulders. Hey, she knew the score. They weren't _exclusive_, it was just for laughs._

"_Danny?" Elle's voice caught his attention again. He turned away from the picture of Kaitlin striding through the streets of New York like some avenging Celtic goddess._

"_Yeah, sure. What time do you want me to pick you up?"_

He had a miserable time with Elle. The southern voice that had once charmed him sounded too honeyed, too slow to the point. Her messy blonde hair wasn't sleek and dark, her lips sorta thin, now that he took a good look. And is she called him _Danny-boy_ one more time…

And he finally identified the look that flickered in Kait's beautiful eyes. _Pain._

He turned on his side and squinted at his digital alarm. 11.30 a.m. She should be up by now. He punched her cell number in, ignoring the fact it was the only one he knew by heart, absent the Bob-Whites' digits.

"Hello?" Her raspy, sexy voice sounded wary, and he winced.

"Hi, beautiful," Dan said, in his huskiest voice.

"Hey Dan." She waited a beat for him to say something else. "Wha…what's up?"

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood," he sang, off-key and loudly. "I thought maybe we could take a walk, see a movie, grab a bite to eat."

"Ummm…I can't Dan. I,uh, have a date." They had promised each other no strings, but Kaitlin found little invisible threads beginning to connect her heart to Dan Mangan's. How could she help Aidan understand he had to move on, if she pined around for Dan? The phone call a few days ago from another woman sealed it for her. Time to step back a little; get on with life. When Christian asked her out for a fun evening at the Costume Institute over at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, she didn't hesitate to accept. Now, if only the little aches in her heart would ease as the threads were snapped…

The blow to his solar plexus may not have been connected to a fist, but the pain there felt the same. _A date? She has a…date?_ "You have a date? With who?" he demanded, sitting up sharply.

"A guy from one of my classes, Dan. Christian. He seems nice. We have a lot in common." She was frowning at Dan's suddenly possessive tone. After all, he had a date too!

"Where is he taking you?" Why are you going with him? What about _us_? Dan wanted to yell into the phone. He fisted one hand in his bedsheets, crumpling them up, just like he'd like to do to freakin' _Christian's _face_._

"We're going to the Cost…" Kaitlin caught herself. Why the hell should she tell him where she was going? He didn't tell her where _he_ was going. And with whom. She wanted to cry, to rage at him about stupid _Elle_, and her stupid southern accent, and make him hurt. Just like she was. "We're just going out," she replied evenly.

"Well, have a great time," he said stiffly.

"Thanks." She disconnected the call, and he sat there, holding his cell phone in his hand, ready to throw it against his door in frustration just like Jim did so many months ago.

Brian was frustrated with Honey; Mart was frustrated with Di; he was frustrated with…Kaitlin? It was different in his case, he assured himself. Brian and Mart, well they were in love with their girls. He didn't love Kaitlin…did he?

He groaned aloud and flopped back on his mattress, covering his face with his pillow. Damn that Jim Frayne anyway. It was entirely his fault. _He _was over there, happier than a pig in sh…crap, married to the girl he loved since he was fifteen, while the rest of the male Bob-Whites were wallowing in pits of relationship hell. Somehow, it just did not seem kosher.

**On Nick Clayborne's **_**OMG!**_** Online blog…**

A special tease to all my Claymates out there in cyberspace…watch **this** space and _**OMG!**_ for some **very** hot goss coming up soon. _You want money_? We got it! _Sex_? That too! _Hot Babes and Hotter Guys?_ We won't disappoint you! **Only at **_**OMG!**_

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada**

He leaned against the cold, tiled wall of the shower, watching as all the red sluiced off of him and swirled its way down the drain. The water was almost blisteringly hot, almost…punishing, one might say,

It wouldn't do for Becky to see him this way.

He loved her, he really did. At least, he thought he did. He wasn't quite sure what love was, but he knew he was obsessed with her since he was seven years old. For most of his life, his thoughts were crowded with her lovely face and delectable body. A face and body now ravaged by fire and time, and he realized the clock was spinning madly, counting down, shrinking the period they had left together.

Unless he could find the human vessel to contain her spirit. The perfect Rebecca Jonsson. He'd been all over the world, and had yet to find someone as…perfect…as his Becky. But lately, lately it had become hard just to let go of them, the other Beckys. He wanted to play some more with them, even if they weren't the _real_ Becky.

They all begged and cried, promised him anything. Sex, money, life in servitude to him. Their eyes were never right, never bright blue and beautiful. He had become fascinated with their skin of late, so soft and white. He could run the scalpel softly, barely making a thin line of red, or plunge it deeply and watch how it…_the blood_…fountained up like a gushing Yellowstone geyser. It was always so warm and slippery and he so wanted to taste it.

But that would be crazy, wouldn't it? And he definitely was not crazy.

He was supposed to be out hunting yesterday, stalking his prey, discovering a new possibility. He saw the girl, a little drunk, waiting for the Metro. She was happy to accept a ride from the handsome man in the big, black Mercedes.

The next thing he knew, they were over on St. Helen's, and she was dead. Her eyes removed along with her clothes, and blood everywhere. He was standing there, nude, in the woods, fisting the scalpel and grinning madly at the perfectly fileted thing on the ground.

A short boat ride across the river, and he was home, all traces of him erased from the island; the thing's clothes served as his protection against getting any blood in the boat. When he pulled into the boathouse, he wrapped his clothes and the thing's into a small package to be dropped off later in a dumpster miles away from the body. Or maybe he'd just keep them. His little secret. Something Becky did _not_ know.

He turned off the water and chuckled. _Secrets._

**At Kaitlin & Aidan's apartment…**

Aidan did a double-take as Kaitlin walked out of her bedroom and into the living room. It had been a long time since he saw his sister look so, well, sexy. She did something with her eyes that made them greener, smoky and mysterious. Her beautiful hair was simply pulled back from her face, but fell in a shining sheet, to the middle of her back. She had a simple red tank top and black leggings, her feet stuffed into black, flat ankle boots, and she was carrying a red and black sweater.

"Wow, Kait, you look gorgeous," he sputtered out. "Dan must be pulling out all the stops if you dressed up like that." He still felt bad about what he said to her the other day, and the guilt was eating away at him.

A brief flash in those smoky eyes, and she smiled at her little brother. "Not Dan."

Aidan collapsed in the recliner. "Not Dan? _Not Dan_?" He couldn't have been more shocked if she told him she was back with Jake the rat.

"Nope. Christian, from school," she responded airily. At least she _hoped _she sounded that way.

"I kind of thought you and Dan were, you know, hitting it off pretty well." He plucked at a loose thread on the arm of the chair.

Kaitlin looked down at the area rug, traced the design with her toe. She looked up at her brother, eyes serious. "Dan and I, well, we're not exclusive," she said in her husky, raspy voice. _Even though you want to be._ That little voice in the back of her brain taunted her with the lie.

"But I thought…well, never mind what I thought. Is he picking you up here?" Aidan's voice was quiet, introspective.

"Aidan, it's New York City! We're meeting downstairs and walking over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art." Too expensive to have a car in the City. Her little yellow Bug was safely ensconced back in Sleepyside with their parents. "Don't wait up." She grabbed her keys and bag and kissed him on the head.

He watched her shut the door, his beautiful sister, so unlucky in love. _But at least she's out there trying, instead of feeling sorry for herself._ "Maybe I should try, too." He said the words out loud, testing them outside of the confines of his mind.

Dan was coming back after a short walk to City Java to clear his brain. He looked up from his steaming cup to see Kaitlin, looking like something out of a magazine, smile at a tall blonde-haired guy who bent down and kissed her cheek. She giggled a bit, called him Christian. He grabbed her hand and the handsome couple walked off, deep in conversation. She never even noticed Dan.

Dan's shoulders sagged and the delicious coffee suddenly tasted like ashes. He threw it in the litter basket, and his cell phone rang. It was Elle again. He stood there in the street, looking at the phone, caught tightly between the willing and the wanted.

**At Locard HQ…**

Anna Ciccone brought the box into the inner sanctum, as she liked to think of it. So many crimes were solved in these rooms, they ought to be dismantled and trucked to the Smithsonian. Maybe someday in the future, fans would be making up stories about the brilliant Dr. Brietling and his sidekick, Detective Stephen Jensen. She of course, would be cast as the mysterious, beautiful girl Friday that both men were secretly in love with. A girlish giggle escaped those perfectly lipsticked lips, and both men looked up, smiling at the sound.

"Care to share the joke, Anna?" Will smiled at her as she shook her head no

"Just a breezy little thought meandering through." She smiled. "Trixie's business cards are here." She handed the box to Will. "Her office is all ready for occupancy." She glanced at the hallway and thought about the shiny new brass plate on the door of the small office between Will's and Stephen's. _Trixie Frayne, Investigator. _ Inside was a desk, several filing cabinets, a bookshelf; a multi-line phone and a state-of-the-art computer. Quite a nice set-up for the men's protégée.

"Trixie will be here on Tuesday for a few hours," Will said, looking at his email. "She is…very energetic. I just hope that we old folk can keep up with her!"

"Oh, I have no doubt that you both will tire _her_ out. Oh, Will, I was vetting your email," Anna frowned. "You have another email from that professor at John Jay, Luke Masse."

"Doesn't that man ever surrender?" Stephen sighed. The professor's frequent emails were something of an in-joke among the three. "What does he want this time?"

"This time he actually requested a meeting with Will. Something about a student misusing a Locard pin. He didn't give any specifics, just requested a meeting."

A brilliant smile lit Will's normally austere countenance. "Shall we play detective, Stephen?"

"Most certainly, my friend. Let's put the clues together. A professor at John Jay…"

"With a student wearing a Locard pin…"

"A professor who has made an absolute nuisance of himself…"

"Who wants a meeting to impart information about this alleged misuse…"

"And what do _you_ deduce, Anna?" Stephen teased.

"Oh my, Stephen. You don't even have to be a detective to figure this one out." Anna perched on the arm of one of the chairs. "The student is Trixie Frayne, and obviously there is no love lost between the two or else she would have told him she is a member."

Will pulled up Trixie's schedule. "Luke Masse, Criminology 101. Same guy." The corners of his moustache suddenly turned down. "I don't like this. If he is giving Trixie a hard time, it can impact on _our_ schedule and _her_ enthusiasm."

"I'll do a little digging," Stephen said. "See what the buzz is about this bloke. Maybe put a little bug in the ear of the Dean of Students. After all, it is quite a coup for the college to have the first student member."

Will steepled his fingers, and glanced at his two friends. "Maybe we'll both make a visit to Cop College. Trixie and Honey are both _way_ past Criminology 101. Anna, when Trixie comes to work, see if you can get anything out of her regarding her relationship with this professor. Also, send an email in my name thanking him for his concerns and that we'll be in contact with him at a later date regarding a meeting." His faded blue eyes went flat, a cop's eyes. He hated to throw around his reputation. But Trixie was of one _them_ now, and he'd damn well go down to the wire for her.

**At the Central Park jogging trails...**

Honey, Trixie and Diana collapsed on the bench. New York City in September could be just as steamy and hot as the middle of August, sometimes even more so. It was as if summer was doing its darndest to hang on and make every one miserable. Even Di, who could probably run a marathon and cross the finish line looking like she just stepped out of _Vogue_, was flushed and sweaty. Running a cold bottle of water over her red face, she announced to no-one in particular, "That's it! Next time we'll just use the gym at the apartment. At least it's air-conditioned!"

The two other girls just grunted their assent in between gulps of refreshingly cool (and expensive) bottled water. Their thin tank tops were plastered to their bodies, and the jogging shorts were damp and uncomfortable. Trixie picked at her top, pulling it away from her skin, only to have it sog back.

With the ease born of their long friendship, the women just sat there quietly, resting and looking out at the green oasis in the big city. "Are you two doing anything tonight with Brian and Mart?" Her brothers were short-tempered for the past couple of days, but it was the start of a new school year, and hey, she definitely knew about frustration.

Di and Honey exchanged a guilty look, one that wasn't lost on Trixie's trained eyes. "Nooooo," Honey answered slowly, drawing out the word.

"Nothing scheduled with Mart," Di said, staring out at the couple setting up a picnic on the lawn. They worked together to get the red-checked cloth down, and the big picnic basket was set on one corner. He reached out and stroked her hair; she turned her face up for a kiss…god, she missed Mart.

"You and Jim doing anything?" Honey hurried to direct Trixie's inquisitive nature away from additional questioning.

"Jim has a double shift at the cafeteria. He's working breakfast and lunch, so he'll be tired when he gets home. We'll probably stay in and watch a dvd or something." She paused while they stood up and began walking to the apartment building, lulling them into a sense of security. "So, are either of you going to explain why neither of you have a date tonight?"

Diana stared up into the cloudless blue sky, snorted in a very unladylike manner, and pulled the scrunchy out of her ponytail. Running a slim, restless hand through her hair, she stared accusingly at Honey. "I told you we'll never be able to keep a secret from her," she wagged her thumb at Trixie.

Trixie stopped in her tracks and leaned against the hot concrete of the skyscraper. "Spill it, ladies? What gives?" She crossed her legs at the ankles and relaxed there, as if they had all the time in the world.

"You're going to think it's stupid, Trix," Diana began, huffing out a breath.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Honey interrupted. "It's not stupid. Besides, why would Trixie think it's stupid? We did a lot more stupider things when we were solving mysteries." She turned to her best friend, leaning there with a slight upward tilt to her lips. "Diana and I are on strike."

Trixie's sandy brows rose. "On strike. On strike against…"

"Being booty calls for your brothers," Diana spat out. "The only time they want to see us lately is for, well, you know."

"They think that we want to get married now, like you and Jim did," added Honey. "And we don't. It may be right for you and my brother, but I know Brian still has a lot of years of studying and frankly, I'm not ready either. Neither is Di."

Trixie worked valiantly to repress the laughter that was bubbling up. "And you know this how?"

"By the way they're treating us! They think just because we talk about how romantic it was when Jim finally came to his senses, or say anything about anyone we know dating or anything, that we're angling for a proposal!" Honey was livid.

"Did…did you try to talk to them about it?" Trixie's sapphire eyes were sparkling with unconcealed mirth.

"Trix. These are _your_ male relations we are talking about. Masters of deflection." Diana began walking, and the other women followed. "How many times did you try to talk to them about your mysteries and they gave you the yeah, yeah, yeah response? Honey and I, well, we deserve better than a couple of guys who only want a relationship on _their_ terms."

"Do they _know _you're on strike?"

"They both took Literature. I think they'll be able to figure it out," Honey snarked. "If it was good enough to end the Peloponnesian War…"

"It should be good enough for the Belden boys to begin _communicating_ instead of _dictating_." Di opened her amazing violet eyes wide.

"Do you guys want me to talk to them?" Trixie couldn't restrain the giggles that erupted. Both women turned to her, matching expressions of horror on their faces.

"Oh, no, Trixie! You'd be breaking the Woman Code!" Honey gasped as Di nodded in agreement.

"The…the _Woman Code_? What's that?" In another moment she'd be on the ground, laughing hysterically.

"You know. You can't _tell_ them what's wrong because they're supposed to _know_ what's wrong. They know that we know there's something wrong, but they have to figure it out or else it doesn't count in relationship points," Honey rambled.

"Relationship points." There was such a thing as _relationship points_?

"Yup," Di agreed. "If we have to _tell_ them, then they obviously don't care enough to find out what's wrong. And that gives them the upper hand. This way, they have to work at it," she finished, a triumphant note in her voice.

"Where was I when my copy of the Woman Code was passed out?" Trixie mused out loud.

"Your brothers probably buried it in the orchard along with your dolls," Di giggled.

"The Woman Code," Trixie muttered under her breath. Linking her arms through those of her best friends, she let loose a musical laugh. "Okay. My lips are sealed." She nearly laughed out loud again, wondering who the winner would be in this war between the sexes. She had a feeling _both_ sides would be waving a white flag before long. She couldn't _wait_ to tell Jim.

**Quantico, Va.**

"He's escalating." The two little words brought a chill into the hearts of the team assigned to apprehending the Dollmaker. The Special Agent in Charge handed out the grisly autopsy photographs of the latest victim. Her high school graduation picture was pinned to the murder wall. Too many victims to be confined to a mere corkboard.

The contrast between the smiling, fresh-faced girl and the body at the bus stop was startling. "As you can see, he's continued his pathology of shaving the victim's head and putting a blonde wig on her."

"Her eyes were excised from their sockets," he continued, "_While_ she was still alive. This also is consistent with his signature. He replaced them with blue dolls eyes."

"Same clothing as the others," remarked one of the female agents. "But red?"

"He…he cut into her skin this time, using a very sharp object, like a scalpel. Some of the cuts are shallow, barely nicking the skin. Others are quite deep, exposing bones and deep muscular tissue. Also performed while she was still living. I just hope to God she went into shock and didn't feel a thing," he ground out.

"So the dress was saturated with blood," the female stated baldly.

"So much blood that the poor guy who found the victim thought she was wearing a red dress and red tights."

"This is a major escalation of the pathology." The quiet voice of Karl King commanded attention. "He is under some stressor. Either the fantasies that fueled him in the past have paled and are not exciting enough, and he needs to…" King searched for the correct word, "Add additional fuel to kick them up another notch. Bring back the original kick he has enjoyed." He noted the grimaces of disgust on most of the agents' faces. "Or else he is in the process of making a break with his original pathology. He may be sinking further into whatever madness drives him, decompensating. In any event, something is changing for him, something that allows for this," he gestured to the gruesome photos.

"In effect, Donna Deminski just bled out. This is quite an escalation. Prior to this he suffocated the victims with carbon monoxide fumes. A more humane way of killing," the Special Agent in Charge said bitterly.

King, the FBI's top profiler, looked around the table, meeting each and everyone's eyes in turn. He knew he was about to depart from the standard Bureau line of nature and nurture. He truly believed some people were just _born_ evil. He should know. He looked into its face often enough. "I'm not sure you could call this UNSUB human."


	12. Tabloid Trix Chapter 11

Tabloid Trix Chapter 11

Jim loped through the mean and congested streets of New York City, eager to get back to his Trixie, yet wanting to prolong his thinking time. A self-deprecating smile flitted across his face; when he was with her, he didn't want to _think_ at all. All he wanted to do was look at her, run his fingers through those long, soft, wild curls; he craved her much like he supposed an addict would crave his next fix. Yes, he needed his next Trix fix.

He shoved his large hands into his pockets, then through his hair. He needed, really needed to talk with Trixie. He looked up at the shining, cloudless, intensely blue sky, as if the answers were skywritten up there by the finger of the gods. Of course, all that was up there was unbroken blue.

The restless, questioning feeling that was keeping him awake some nights was gnawing at him. When his restive mind awoke him in the dark, he looked down at the sleeping Trixie, calmed by her even breathing, by seeing her blonde curls spread out the pillows in his bed. _Their_ bed. Her face in repose was dreamy, beautiful. His sense of wonderment, that he could kiss her whenever he wanted to; touch her in _that_ way overwhelmed him at times, swamped him with the most profound feelings.

He was, simply, absolutely crazy about her.

If he talked to her, laid out his plan, how would she react? Would she see it as abandonment? God, he didn't think he could stand it if he saw disappointment with him in those sapphire eyes. Would she stay with him?

Jim reflected on his time spent with Jonesy. _That nickname_. Such a cute, inoffensive little moniker…hiding a monster. The two years he spent, beaten, abused with his stepfather had grown so large, so all-encompassing, that it almost obliterated any memories of his happy life _before_ then, affected everything he did _since_ then. He could have lost _her_. Almost lost _himself_. But it was only two years, not a lifetime, and with her help, he was putting that demon to rest. He didn't define his life anymore by the actions of a common criminal.

And because he was no longer living under Jonesy's dirty thumb, whether in actuality or metaphorically, he felt free. Freer than he had in a very, very long time. Free to grow and change and become who James Winthrop Frayne II was _supposed_ to be.

He stood in front of his building and scrubbed a hand across the side of his face. Now, if only _Trixie_ could understand, everything would be, to use his sister's phrase, perfectly perfect.

**At **_**OMG!**_** offices…**

Paul Trent was viewing the mock-up of the first issue of the magazine; the one that contained an introduction to the Bob-Whites of Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson. Nanci, Amy and Nick were there, all eyes riveted to the digital reproduction of the cover being broadcast on the whiteboard from the inexpensive laptop.

It was _magnificent_.

It was that photo of Jim, taken at the construction site in Newark, looking like every woman's fantasy of a blue-collar lover. Long, lean legs, narrow hips, those bulging biceps. Sweaty and a little dirty, his hard hat only delineating his strong jaw and handsome face. The headline: _**OMG!**__**Who is this Hunk and Why is He Working so Hard?**_ In smaller letters**: The Five Richest Under 21s in the US!**

"Wow. Just wow." Amy couldn't help but be stirred by the image. "Are you sure this guy is married, Trent?" She certainly wouldn't mind a piece of that. Judging by Nick's enraptured face, _he_ wouldn't either.

Paul waved a dismissive hand. "Hell, he's been married to that snoopy blonde since he was fifteen," he retorted.

Nanci flicked to the main article…sandwiched towards the back of the magazine, so the reader had to flip though pages filled with ads for New Breakthrough Weight Loss programs! and You Can Make More Money at Home!

In an age filled with sound bites, Twitter messages in 140 characters or less, emoticons and LOL abbreviations, _OMG!_ did something unexpected.

They devoted four full pages to **The Five Richest Under 21s in the US!**

The kids of the billionaire computer magnate, numbers 1 and 2 were given rather short shrift – a quarter page picture of each, a description of their daily boring lives going to MIT and Stanford. God, they each belonged to the Math Club and the Computer Club and Bring Back Latin as a Spoken Language Club, probably did Boolean Algebra for fun. Maybe they'd appeal to the segment of the population that did not buy a magazine such as _OMG!. _

Each of the subsequent three pages was devoted to numbers 3, 4 and 5. Madeleine 'Honey' Wheeler, James Winthrop Frayne II and Diana Lynch. Nanci had to hand it to Trent. He did a bang-up job; not only was the prose just this side of being litigious, but the pictures were spectacular. Honey Wheeler, the poor little rich girl, sick, made whole by the magic in a rural NY town; James Frayne, orphan, beaten by a cruel stepfather, heir to a fortune and adopted by the Wheelers – and amazingly looking rather like Matthew Wheeler, who was a _supposed_ friend of Jim's father; Diana Lynch, a beautiful, simple milkmaid whose dad struck it rich, much to her dismay.

There was the photograph of the sprawling Manor House, sitting on top of that hill on Glen Road like an old-time castle lording it over the mud huts of the peasants below. The Lynch mansion, set back from the road with acres of green lawns and not quite as magnificent as the Manor House, but fantastic nonetheless. Grooms and chauffeurs, horses; a private lake.

Quotes from classmates who knew them back when: _"She wasn't very well-liked. She was always sick." _

"_We all knew he was beating the crap out of Jim, but he never said a word."_

"_She has _two_ sets of twin brothers and sisters! Maybe they should put her nouveau riche family on that tacky channel that has all the multiples."_

_Words can wound, sometimes much deeper and more soul-destroying than a well-aimed slap or kick. _ Paul Trent stretched his mouth in what should have been a grin; his eyes should have reflected his dark amusement.

Instead, the dead, black eyes and predatory smile of a great white shark that shone out, destroying anything remotely human about him, made Amy shiver. _Something wicked this way comes. _

**At Trixie & Jim's Apartment…**

Jim unlocked the door; turned around and re-locked everything. Trixie was supposed to go jogging with the female contingent of the Bob-Whites; he supposed she wasn't home.

Until he heard the giggles coming from their bedroom.

_What was she up to now?_ A small smile tilted the corners of his lips up. The door was open; he crept up on silent feet, and was tickled by the completely unexpected sight of his wife, dressed in two scraps of midnight blue satin, jumping up and down on their lake-sized bed with gleeful abandon. His appreciative male eyes zoomed right in on her killer cleavage, the girls bopping about madly with the rest of her.

On her last aerial acrobatic, she landed face down on the duvet, wiggling around, making a little nest and he was treated to the sounds of her muffled laughter. She flipped over, her face alight with pleasure and those yellow spirals in tousled disarray.

"Didn't your mommy tell you not to jump on beds?" Jim's amused voice broke into her reverie. Trixie spared a glance at the doorway, meeting the dancing eyes of her best friend.

Her dazzling smile broke through as she turned to her side, leaning her head on bended elbow and striking the old-time centerfold pose. "Of course she did," she laughed. "But she's not around here now. Next, I'm going to _run with scissors!_'"

He reached the bed in two quick strides, sitting down and running his hand along her side, his eyes riveted on that damn pierced belly button. Chucking her lightly under the chin, he teased, "But your husband is very overprotective and I'm sure he could give you a long lecture about hitting your head on the corner of the headboard or nightstand…"

She scrambled to her knees and slid right up his side and into his lap, her hands pulling on that crisp red hair, pulling his face towards hers. She skimmed her lips over the side of his neck, just where it drove him mad, and whispered, "I think my husband," she kissed the corner of his mouth, "Has a lot better things to do with his mouth than give me a lecture." Just before she closed her lips over his, she saw the quick flash as smoldering desire ignited into wildfire.

**Late that night…**

_She was walking down the long corridor of an unfamiliar hospital, following the little red arrows pointing the way to ICU. In her hand, she grasped the yellow pass that would allow her to enter room number six. _

_She hesitated before she entered; just as well, because a young, pretty bleached blonde was exiting in haste. Brenda. She must have said the name out loud, because the blonde turned to her and lifted a perfectly arched brow. _

"_You'll never catch me," Brenda hissed at her, grinning widely. "Never, you two-bit private eye. Hell, Micki couldn't even hire someone with _experience._" Brenda turned and swayed down the hall in her three inch heels. Turning back to Trixie, she gave a little wave of her hand. "Toodles, Trix," she sneered, and disappeared._

_She looked down at her hand, the one with the paper, now crumpled in her tight fist. Taking a large gulp of air, she entered ICU room six._

_Jerry looked up at her, his skin a ghastly gray. All around him, machines beeped and blinked, ticking off the small amount of time he had left. "You're falling down on the job, Trixie," he admonished her in a weak voice. _

"_Don't blame me because you couldn't keep it in your pants," she shot right back. _

_His brows snapped together and his almost colorless lips thinned as they turned down. "It doesn't matter whether or not you like me, Trixie," he said, rather sadly. "You're a _detective_. Sometimes you'll have to find justice for people like me, people that are not so nice, that have done bad things. Made bad choices. Justice is blind you know."_

_She closed her eyes, the truth of his words penetrating to the deepest part of her. "I don't like you, Jerry," she said, "But that doesn't mean I won't do less than 100% for you. For your family." Trixie sighed. "Did she kill you, Jerry?"_

"_You know I can't tell you that."_

"_Well, what _can _you tell me?" Frustration rang through her voice. _

_He shrugged his shoulders lightly, painfully. "If you drop a piece of buttered bread, it will always land butter side down," he tried to joke. "Trixie, you have all the cookies. Just… put them… together." The words were slower, softer, slurred, as the green line went flat._

"Jerry!" Trixie's blue eyes snapped open as she sat straight up in bed, cold and clammy, her voice echoing in the room. The room was still light; it was early yet. She reached over for Jim, the dream still unsettling and fresh in her mind. They had fallen asleep after, well, _after_.

Jim's side of the bed was empty. Trixie looked around, gave up on trying to find her bra and panties. Instead, she pulled on Jim's tee shirt, still on the bed where she had thrown it. It smelled like him, a little bit of her, and a lot like sex. She ran a hand through her untamable curls, and padded silently into the living room.

He was standing there, in front of the window, shirtless and with his light flannel pajama bottoms riding low on his hips. The ones she bought him on a whim, with large lipstick kiss marks all over them. Her mouth actually went dry, seeing her tall, broad-shouldered husband standing there, his back to her. She slipped behind him and circled her arms around his waist. He gave a slight start, and relaxed into her embrace as she laid her head on his back, her soft curls brushing his skin in the most exquisite way.

He took a deep breath, a slow tic beginning to work at his jaw. "Trix?" he shuttered his emerald eyes. "Can we talk?"

**At Wild Greens…**

Dan was sitting at the bamboo table, in its bamboo chairs with comfy plastic seats that savvy retailers always advertised as 'pleather' wondering how a meat and potatoes guy like himself got talked into a vegetarian restaurant by two of his best gal pals. Geez, the things he did for Brian and Mart.

He ordered the Veggie Burger and Sweet Potato Fries; Di and Honey opted for the Wild Greens house salad, filled with such delicious treats as cubes of tofu. He peeked again at the burger, and was totally disheartened to see what _looked_ like a burger, but wasn't that a sprig of broccoli right there? He eyed the salads of the women, but tofu tasted exactly like wallpaper paste would taste, he imagined. One bite of it several years ago had been one too many for his liking.

"Di came up with the idea to have a BWG get together once a month," Honey was saying as he took an experimental bite and winced. "We could rotate apartments so everyone has a chance to host, and whoever is available could come." She took a deep breath. "We could invite Kaitlin and Aidan too."

Di immediately jumped on his lack of response. "We don't have to invite them," she said softly. She noticed the brief flare of unhappiness in Dan's dark eyes.

He wasn't going to tell them. It was the furthest thing from his mind. Instead, he was surprised to hear the whine in his voice as he spilled his guts on the ecologically-friendly, renewable resource that the bamboo table reflected.

"Um, I sort of messed up," he confessed. "Badly."

Honey and Di exchanged a speaking look, and waited for him to continue. "You know me. Love 'em and leave 'em Dan," he said, with only a trace of bitterness in his voice. "It was supposed to be just for laughs, fun. Nothin… nothing permanent or serious."

"She…she has a way of getting under your skin," he mused. "Her and those big eyes and that sleek black hair. And then it's all you can do not to think about her every single minute of the day."

He sat back in his chair, puffed out a breath. "I was pulling away a little bit. Just a smidgen. No entanglements for me! Then I saw her sitting there, so sad in the coffee shop. So I went in. She and Aidan had an argument."

"Aidan told me," Honey said gently. "He's really sorry."

"I teased her out of her mood," Dan continued, not even asking Honey where she had seen Aidan and spoke to him. "And then Elle called."

Di's violet eyes grew wider. "Elle?"

Dan's fingers drummed on the tabletop. "Just some girl I dated a couple of times last year. I made a date with her, forgot about it. Then she called and Kait heard. I think I hurt her."

"What did she do?" Honey placed her slender hand over Dan's restless one. He grabbed onto it so hard, it almost hurt.

"She walked away, left me to take my call, left me to take my date. I had a miserable time. I called Kait the next day, asked her to go out. She had a date. _A date!_ Some jerk from school._ Christian_." He spat the name out.

Honey's fine brows drew together, and instead of the sympathy Dan was expecting, he saw a flash of absolute fury. Turning to Di, he saw the same disgust in her fine eyes. "_What_?"

"You men are all alike," Honey fumed. "_You_ don't want entanglements, just go out for laughs and a good time, and gee, maybe if you're lucky, you'll get laid."

Dan's jaw actually dropped open. He couldn't have been more surprised by Honey's words than if she confessed she was secretly in love with Di. Honey Wheeler? Using a slang word like _laid_?

Di took up the gauntlet, her voice just as icy as Honey's was. "_You_ want the freedom to go out with anyone you please, yet Kait is supposed to sit home waiting for you? I don't think so, Mr. Mangan." She put her hands up to her cheeks, hoping to cool the burn there. "God, Dan, you're just so…so…male!"

Dan's Irish temper began to rise. "I _told_ you guys I messed up." He realized several other patrons were looking in askance at the table with the impossibly good-looking trio. He lowered his voice. "I freakin' messed up. I admit it. Now how do I fix it?" he hissed out.

Honey snorted and stood up. "Well, Daniel, you need to figure out what you want. Once you have that buttoned down, then you go after it. If it turns out you want Kaitlin, a little groveling is in order."

"Yup." Di stood up. "And _you_ can pay the bill. C'mon, Honey." The two women left him sitting there, mouth open, stuck with the bill and absolutely starving. _Gee, that went well._

**Lissa Thorne's Flat, Lyons , France**

She was staring at her pale face in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were too wide; the wrong color. Her hair was a short, dark cap, and a part of her pined for her long, brown hair that vanished, along with Jody Lavigne, so many years ago.

She was nearly thirty years old, and she felt ninety. She wanted to go home, to Washington. She wanted to cry over her parents' grave, over Lizbeth's grave. She maybe wanted to find someone, some man who could overlook the fact her brother is a serial killer and live happily ever after.

She saw the reports of what happened to the latest victim of the Dollmaker. Of her _brother_. She didn't throw up until she got home. Lissa pressed a hand to her stomach, still hurting after so forcefully expelling its contents.

He was escalating his violence against the women, opening them up like she suspected he opened up their family pets that always seemed to vanish. Her mother used to joke they had the worst luck with animals. After the third one 'disappeared' her Dad put a halt to any new pets.

_Daddy. _If only he hadn't found out about Becky. If only he hadn't found out about the sick, disgusting things her brother did with the doll. Her father walked in on them, on him; that summer day was forever imprinted in her mind.

She was looking in her vanity mirror. It was summer and beautiful outside, but she was chilled to the bone. She heard the muffled thumps coming from her brother's 'office' up in the attic. Lizbeth was missing. _Missing._

And her brother had wiped the secret smile off his face quickly, but not before she saw it, as her mother enfolded her in her arms, comforting her.

She _knew._ She knew he killed her.

Daddy went looking for him that day. He went up to the attic to get him; her Mom was waiting to take him for another interview. The attic door was usually locked when her brother was up there, performing his unholy acts. He forgot. _He made a mistake._

Daddy walked in and saw him - naked, sweaty; crooning his love to Becky as he pounded into her. She could still hear her father's disgusted yell: "_Hunter! What the HELL are you doing?"_

And Hunter looked up at Daddy, Daddy told her later, with the madness spilling out of those colorless eyes, blinded by his lust for the fair Becky.

There was no interview that day. Instead, there was a bonfire in the backyard. Her Mom was sobbing softly, still unconvinced that her husband saw what he saw. Hunter was there, the light from the fire shining in his eyes, his fists clenched. Mom had her hands lightly on his shoulders; she _must_ have been able to feel the tension and hate radiating from him.

She stood next to her father, the two of them always a unit. He was holding onto Becky's plastic arm, a glove on his hand, a look of utter disgust on his face. With one toss, Becky landed in the fire. As it began to consume her, Hunter let out the most unearthly sound, rage and grief combined.

Lissa left the bathroom, still thinking of that day. Her father walked away, and she did too, her mother hurrying after them, talking rapidly. Trying to convince Tom that he was mistaken. Trying to convince herself she did not see the crusted semen stains.

Hunter, alone at the bonfire, rescued his lady love.

And sealed the fate of his family.


	13. Tabloid Trix Chapter 12

Tabloid Trix Chapter 12

"Gleeps, Jim, of course we can talk," Trixie said, dropping her arms from his waist. He immediately felt bereft of her warmth, and she was having those flashes of thoughts that go through your brain at warp speed. _He sounds serious. Maybe he regrets marrying me. No, maybe he's going to tell me he really doesn't want me to join Locard or maybe Honey told him about Professor Masse. Maybe…_

"Trix?" His husky voice interrupted her train of maybes. She went and sat primly on the couch, her head and eyes downcast, her hands folded in her lap and her brain still going a million miles a minute. Jim sat on the coffee table right in front of her, and took her hands in his. His thumbs stroked little circles on her knuckles, and he waited until she raised her head and he felt the jolt of those sapphire blue eyes skittering into his emerald ones.

He raised her slightly chilled hands to his lips and kissed them. Did she have any idea how much he adored her? How she looked, sitting in their living room dressed in one of his shirts, her lips swollen from his kisses? Still keeping his serious eyes on her questioning ones, he lowered their entwined hands and began to speak.

"You know how I never talk about…about my parents." His voice came out hoarse, rusty. "My biological parents." His green eyes slipped away from hers, focused on their hands. "Or _him._"

"It's painful for you, Jim. I understand." Trixie shivered once. She never told him how angry she was with Katje Frayne. Leaving him, her supposedly beloved son, with that bastard. Trixie never could understand how the woman could be so weak.

He looked back up into her face, those glorious eyes that haunted his dreams since he was fifteen, and was nearly undone by the fierce tenderness shining forth. "I never talked about them because, well, because almost all I could remember was _him_. It was like the first ten years of my life were some gauzy dream that morphed into hell."

Her eyes filled with tears, and he raised a freckled hand to wipe one away that escaped. It simply amazed him that his warrior would cry about a small boy whose world crashed so long ago. "I…I never understood why she married him, Trixie. _Never_. I…hated her for a long time. Why couldn't she tell he couldn't stand the sight of me? I thought, she is my _mom_. She should _know_ this. Mama should have known that I was too much of a reminder of my dad." He ran his hand through his thick red hair. "Then she got sick, so sick, and you know," he smiled a little, that lopsided grin she loved. "You know, I felt responsible. That somehow, my hate sort of invaded her, all black and roiling, and made her sick. I had to be so good, I promised God everything to make her well." His eyes became bleak.

"And then she died and left you with him." It wasn't nice. It wasn't proper. It wasn't the Belden way. But Trixie hoped, almost willed that Jones, in whatever prison he was in, was being treated to a round of drop the soap every time he took a shower.

"He beat me, Trix. He beat me so badly I used to wish I was dead, with my parents. And when he wasn't beating me, he was calling me names. Telling me I killed my mother. I ran away to _live_, Trixie." He raised a shaking hand to her curls; twined _his_ curl around one slender finger. "And there you were, trespassing in an old, dilapidated mansion. You and Honey. There you were, taking me to task about breaking in, even while I had a shotgun aimed at you." He tugged at that soft curl, now much longer than it had been when she was thirteen. "I tumbled in love with you, right then, when I was fifteen and you were thirteen. I thought, _I just have to follow her light._"

Silent tears were tracking down Trixie's expressive face. He caught one on his finger, touched it to his lips. "I had lots of dreams back then, shared them with you and my sister, _all_ the BWGs. Spent lots of time in hormone hell, thinking about you, dreaming about you."

Trixie lifted her hand, stroked his face, felt the rasp of his stubble. "I love you, Jim. I loved you then, I love you now," she whispered.

"You and Honey, ever since I burst into your lives, you always knew what you wanted to do. Open a detective agency." He gave her a rueful smile. "No matter how many lectures Brian and I gave you. I thought I knew what I wanted to do too. But it turns out I was wrong."

"What are you trying to tell me, Jim?" She didn't understand. Didn't he want to open his school?

"Opening a school for orphan boys…it was a dream I conjured up because of _him_. And then it sort of took on a life of its own," he confessed. "Now, with you, I'm finding the…the freedom to be me, Trix. I find myself remembering all the good parts, the parts that he buried in me. I spent all these years in school, working at camps part of the summer, away from you. Visiting orphanages, private schools. What I dreamed about isn't the _reality_ of what my life…our life would be."

He scrubbed at his face with both hands. "It's _endless_ administration. Endless fundraising. I'm not even sure the great State of New York would allow me to charter a school as a victim of abuse. When I first came to Sleepyside, there was plenty of land to be had. Now, most of the undeveloped parts belong to Dad, or Di's father."

"Matt and Mr. Lynch are preserving the rural quality of life there. I know." Trixie sighed. "An hour or two from the big city is no major commute anymore. And I can't believe condos are springing up in town!"

Jim stood up, unable to sit any longer, willing Trixie to understand. He began to pace as he spoke. "I'd have to build elsewhere. I couldn't ask Dad for more land, and I don't want to build on Ten Acres." He stopped, looked at her with an intense light in his eyes. "Correction. I _do_ want to build on Ten Acres. I want to rebuild my house, for us. For our children."

"When Mart came to me a couple of years ago, told me he wanted to change his major from farming to journalism, I was happy for him. He's a terrific writer, and I definitely could see him on television as an investigative journalist. Brian's always wanted to be a doctor, and I know Doc Ferris is just waiting for him to finish school so Brian can take over the practice. Your brothers are pursuing their hearts' desire, and they should."

"I _used_ to think my heart's desire was a school for orphan boys." He walked over to her, bent down and took her hands, pulled her into his strong embrace. "But it turns out _my_ heart's desire was _you_, Trixie. Just…you." His lips ghosted through her curls. "Dad has a charitable foundation, The Wheeler/Hart/Frayne Foundation. E&S Lynch is going to contribute also, give back, so eventually it will incorporate as The Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson Foundation." Jim paused for breath, his body vibrating with a repressed excitement.

Trixie Belden Frayne, Detective First Class, immediately saw where her husband was leading her. "So they want you to head the foundation, and you want to be involved," she concluded, tipping her face up to his and watching his eyes widen and brighten.

_That was his Trixie_. His words tumbled out, one over the other. "Trix, it's a great opportunity to help _lots_ of people, not just orphaned boys. Even if I did open the school, what could we take in, maybe twenty to thirty kids at the most? At 18, they'll age out of the school and then what? I see the kids, Trixie, the desperate people who just need a helping hand up. I see them when I'm working at the Center, or helping to build a house. When I lived with my parents on the farm, even with _him_, when I was selling produce at the stand in the road, I saw so many down on their luck people. I wanted to help. My parents did. _He_ wouldn't give anybody a rotten tomato. I can make a big difference now, Trixie. The Foundation can make a huge difference."

She searched his face, looked into his eyes. They were a brilliant emerald, yet she saw the questions lurking behind them. She pulled him to the couch, tired of looking up, made him sit. "Tell me, Jim," she said gently. "_Everything._"

"Columbia offers a three year dual major program. I would get a J.D. in law and an MBA in business administration," Jim said. "I need to take the LSATs in October. I spoke to my advisor about this, and he agrees that this would be the best way to achieve my goal. It would mean we'd be staying in the City for part of the summer, though," he warned her. He looked away from her. "This is for _me_, Trix. Not as a knee-jerk response to Jonesy, but what I think I was _born_ to do. _You've_ done this for me, Trixie." He paused. "I…was so in love with you, but deep down inside, I was still the battered boy from Rochester. How could _you_ love me? I tried to couch it by telling myself that I wasn't asking you out because I wanted to get all the credits I could under my belt so I could be ready when you turned 18. And I told myself that it would be good for you to see other people, experience high school, and not be tied to a workaholic at college. But underneath all the excuses, I was just afraid to let go, afraid that you would turn away once you saw the real me. Afraid to love all the way, because everything I ever loved was taken away."

He looked into her brimming eyes. "But then you loved me anyway, without reservation, without games. Something loosened up in me, Trixie. I'm free. Free to remember the good times, not just the hell. I want to talk to you, baby, tell you _everything_. All the good. All the bad. I want to…to share _me_." He ran a finger over her light golden freckles, barely visible on her nose. The excitement died down in his eyes. "I just…I just am afraid you'll be disappointed in me, think I'm a quitter. After all the talk about the school…" his voice died away as his wife jumped up from the couch and stood in front of him, curls quivering with anger. She lightly punched him in the arm.

"You are _such_ a jerk, Jim. It doesn't matter _one drop_ to me whether you open a school, become a trapeze artist in a circus, or sing arias at the Met, as long as I am with you. Can…can we afford the tuition, though? I'm sure they charge double. Don't you have to apply to both the law school _and_ the business school? I mean, I have the job with Locard, and the scholarship to John Jay, and you have the scholarship to Columbia, but that ends when you graduate. And Columbia _is _Ivy League, you know," she reminded him.

Jim had to laugh. He pulled her into his lap, nuzzled her hair. She never _once_ asked him about money, always keeping carefully within the budget they designed together. "Trixie, honey, Dad has been taking care of my inheritance from Uncle James for quite a while now. And then there were the huge amount stocks and bonds Mr. Rainsford had for me. And Ten Acres was heavily insured. We have more than enough money to spend in three lifetimes."

She pulled her face back from his, eying him with suspicion. "And how much is more than enough, Mr. Frayne?" She had a sneaking feeling that she was about to receive a severe shock. "I mean, not enough that you should have asked me for a pre-nup, right?"

Jim rolled his eyes and snorted. "Pre-nup. Sure. So romantic. Since I'm in this until death do us part, I saw no need for a pre-nup."

Trixie persisted. "How much, James?"

"Everything, or just liquid assets?" he teased.

"Everything." She had to know.

The smile died off of Jim's face, and he pulled her tightly to him. Only with _his_ wife would he have to extract a promise not to get mad about being, well, wealthy. It's not like he dwelled on it either. He was content to let Matt Wheeler and George Rainsford take care of the day-to-day details. "Promise me you won't get angry," his voice was muffled against the side of her neck.

She crossed her heart and waited expectantly.

"Somewhere in the neighborhood of half a billion dollars."

For a moment, the living room seemed to slowly revolve around her. She had to have heard wrong. Her voice trembling, Trixie asked, "How much in the neighborhood?"

"Right in the center of the neighborhood," Jim raised his head from that sweet spot between her shoulder and neck and looked at her. Her freckles stood out in the paleness of her face. "Remember, circus trapeze artist, Trix," he chided her.

She burst into tears. "But…but people are going to think I married you for the money," she wailed. "I'm just plain old Trixie from Crabapple Farm, not some socialite heiress."

"And I'm just plain old Jim Frayne from a small farm in upper New York State. Nothing special. I wasn't born to this,Trix. Trixie, anyone who knows you will know that's not true. Besides, it's not like I publish our bank account in a magazine or something. I won't come in to _all _the money until I'm 25." He kissed away her tears. "Besides, I still might run away to the circus with you. I'd love to see you in one of those skimpy outfits walking the tightrope."

She slid her lips across his, and then sighed against them. "Okay, Mr. Moneybags. You know I married you for the sex. The money is just a bonus."

"Great sex," Jim agreed. "And you have to admit, _I deliver_."

She ran her hands through that fascinating thick red hair, grabbed on and pulled his head back. She fastened her lips to his, nipping his bottom lip lightly, then taking the kiss deep; delicious and with darkly decadent undertones. When his hands fisted at her sides, she sprang up.

Walking into the kitchen, his eyes glued to the sway of her hips, that kiss still reverberating through his body, she glanced back at him and smirked. "Even the Great Waldo has to get hungry _sometimes_."

He leaped from the couch and in two long strides, scooped her up in his arms. "Maybe I want to sing arias at the Met," he laughed, long fingers curling around her bare bottom.

"Mmmmm," she agreed, "Figar-_ohhh, Jim!_"

**At the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art…**

Kaitlin tried to hide a yawn. The exhibition should have captured her imagination: _Goddesses, 100 Years of Movie and Television Magic._ They had every era on display, from a flapper dress worn by the then unknown Joan Crawford to Liz Taylor's elaborate _Cleopatra _costume; all the way through to Sookie Stackhouse's Merlotte's waitress outfit from _True Blood_.

If _Dan_ were there, he would have kept her entertained with an endless supply of funny quips and edgy observations. Instead, she had _Christian_ practically lecturing her about the number of sequins used in one of Ginger Rogers' gowns from _Top Hat._ When they first started to view the clothes, she was really excited and thrilled to see, in person, iconic costumes only previously glimpsed on the silver screen or small screen. However, with Christian droning on and on about rolled handkerchief hems and exclaiming how tiny the actresses were at _every_ single new item, she was developing a headache. _Excedrin Headache number 72, being lectured into a coma between Barbarella and Lara Croft._

As they gazed on Raquel Welch's fur bikini, she began to hear Dan's deep voice in her head. _"Looks itchy, Babe. Although I'd be _happy_ to scratch you _wherever _it itched."_ Her lips tilted up at the corners.

Princess Leia's sexy, gold slave costume from _Return of the Jedi_ was next. _"Would you let me yank your chain if you were wearing that?"_ Her hand went up to her neck, as if she was wearing the collar. Damn right, she would. _If_ he was wearing the male version.

_Pretty in Pink's_ iconic prom dress was next. _"My eyes! My eyes! Eighties fashion couldn't have been this bad, was it? What do you call it, Pepto Pink?"_ She laughed aloud, and Christian gave a shallow sigh of relief. He thought he was losing her there for a second, but her face was lit up from within.

Christian smiled back; he had absolutely no clue that there were _three_ people enjoying the exhibit that day. He, Kaitlin and that entertaining voice in her head, courtesy of the man she actually longed to be with.

**At the Boys' Apartment…**

Mart was concocting something on the stove; it didn't smell too bad, Brian mused as he sat at the kitchen table, watching his brother. He was supposed to be studying. No, he was supposed to be having a date with his girlfriend. A girlfriend who suddenly had no time for him.

Mart's thoughts were running parallel to his big brother's. This situation really sucked. Instead of fooling around with the delectable Diana, there he was being Susie Homemaker. All he needed was a frilly little apron and he could change his name to Martha.

Brian spoke up, startling him. "Do you suppose Dan is having any luck with Honey and Diana?" He knew they are going to some silly vegetarian place the girls talked him into. All they had to do was bat their eyelashes at him, and Dan was putty. Talk about whipped.

Mart sat plopped down across from Brian and cupped his chin in his hand. "I have full confidence in Dan. He's pretty good at ferreting out secrets." Dan was probably the only Bob-White not shocked by Jim and Trixie's fast-track romance. If you could actually call waiting five years fast-track.

"But what if there's nothing to ferret out, Mart? I mean, we _think_ something is wrong, but don't _know_ something is wrong. What if he comes back and tells us something we don't want to hear?" Brian ran a hand through his black curls.

"Like what, Brian? Anything is better than nothing at this point." Mart got up, stirred the pot, then removed it from the heat and dished it up. Brian stared at the conglomeration in the bowl and took a tentative taste. Some sort of stew. It really was pretty good.

"Like the girls want to ditch us now that they're in college. Let's face it, Mart, we're really just small-town guys. It may have been a big deal for them to date us when we were college men, but the playing field is leveled now." He sighed, morose. "All those rich, handsome, sophisticated guys; Honey and Di would be like…like a freshman smorgasbord to them."

Mart put down his spoon. "Now there's a cheery thought. More like all those drunk, grubby party animals trying to convince them to whip off their tops."

Brian groaned. "I hadn't even thought of that, you lamebrain. Thanks for putting that lovely thought in my head." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Next thing you know, we'll be seeing some new DVD advertised_, Hot Freshman College Bodies_ or something and they'll be starring in it. With their new, hot guys."

Mart snorted. "I can't imagine Honey Wheeler in a wet tee shirt contest." It was too far-fetched. The girls were, if anything, overly modest at times.

Brian continued on, as if Mart hadn't spoken. "Body shots. Spring Break in Aruba with some built surfer guy whose parents own Dallas. Cozy late study dates at Java City."

Dan was standing outside the apartment door, a look of hesitation sitting uncomfortably on his dark features. It wasn't a feeling he was comfortable with, but yeesh, Brian and Mart were in there. Waiting for a report.

He considered the locks on the door. If he was really painstaking, he could probably open them more or less silently. Then he could sneak in his room, lock the door, and make a quick, early getaway in the morning.

The only flaw, he reasoned out, was the fact that he couldn't do this for the rest of his natural life. But it would do, for today.

With great care and stealth, he opened the locks with barely a snick registering. A slow turn of the doorknob, an unhurried push of the door and…

The smell came wafting through the air, breathed in and wrapping itself around his olfactory system like a siren, embracing him like a lover. He closed his eyes, letting the scent envelope him in a warm _welcome home, Dan baby. I've been waiting for you…_

_Meat. Cooked meat._ Real, honest-to-God came from an animal and not from a damn brussel sprout delicious meat. The scent beckoned him towards the kitchen with invisible arms, pulling at him, stroking his face…

He was lost. He had to follow the damn siren, wherever she was leading him. Even to his doom, in the kitchen with his two best friends who were eagerly awaiting information he did not possess. The best thing, he mused, was just to give them a shade of the truth. Not exactly lying, but not exactly telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Taking a deep breath of deliciously scented air, he sauntered into the lion's den.

"Guys," he greeted, interrupting a complaint session of some kind. He walked over to the stove and glanced in the pot. Leftovers. He scrubbed a hand across his heart, thanking the fates that there was a bowl full of manly vittles just waiting for him to tear into it. "Mind if I eat the rest of this?" He asked the question, politely, as he dished the rest of the stew into a large bowl. They really had no choice. He'd defend it with his life.

Both Mart and Brian watched him as he completed his homely task, and waited for him to sit down at the table and take a bite. An expression of utter delight passed over Dan's face, as Mart and Brian catalogued his moves. Mart spoke first.

"I thought you were having something with the girls at that vegetarian place," Mart said. "Didn't you go there?"

Dan took another heavenly spoonful, god it was bliss, and pondered how he should respond. "Yeah, we went." He snorted. "It was wonderful if you like burgers made out of broccoli and chunks of wallpaper paste in your salad. Everything was just so eco-friendly and bright and trendy I wanted to barf."

"Did you talk to them about, you know?" Brian inquired, sort of distracted by Dan's practically shoveling the stew in, and his almost maniacal glee.

Dan was sopping up the last remnants of the stew with a piece of bread. He didn't want to miss one meaty sliver. Keeping his head down, seemingly intent upon his task, he answered with the absolute truth. "No, I didn't talk to them about it."

"What!" Mart demanded. "I though the whole purpose of this little rendezvous was to elicit information." He stood up and began to pace. Really. Why didn't _he_ just go over to the girls' and rip the damn door off the hinges and demand an answer?

Here came the little shadings. "Well, we started off okay, and then I must have said something to make them angry," he knew _exactly_ what he said, "And they gave me a scolding, stalked out and left _me _with the bill."

Brian searched Dan's face. "What the _hell_ did you say?" It was unlike the girls to just leave him stranded in a restaurant. But with this new world order they seemed to have fallen into, it appeared anything was possible.

"I was saying something about Kaitlin and they just went off on me." Spreading his hands out, palms up, he shrugged. "Called me male, like it was the worst swear word in the world, and took off."

"Oh great," Mart moaned. "Now they're mad at you; Brian and I obviously did something to tick them off and now it looks like we'll _have_ to go to Trixie." He really didn't want to do that. His almost-twin would lord it over him for months, maybe years. They'd probably be in their graves and she'd roll over and tax him with it.

"We could always try Jim. Maybe Trixie or Honey confided in him," Brian would rather not bring another female into the mix, even if it was his sister.

"Hmmm. Maybe. Although good old honorable Jim would never discuss something Trixie or Honey told him in confidence," Dan was sure of that.

"I can't see them swearing him to secrecy, if they did tell him," Brian retorted, on an acerbic note. "After all, he is _male._ And that should come first. Band of brothers and all that."

Mart leaned back against the counter. "Okay then. Jim it is." Failing that, he was going to Plan B. Diana Lynch was _his_, and he was going to prove it to her, no matter what it took to do so. If he had to put a fur loincloth on, toss her over his shoulder and carry her through the streets of Manhattan, so be it.

**Back at Trixie's and Jim's…**

"_Relationship_ points?" Jim raised a ginger eyebrow. "There's _relationship_ points?" They were both munching on delicious BLTs with a side of homemade pickles from Crabapple Farm and some chips.

"Apparently. Although that was the first I ever heard about them." Trixie giggled. "They said my brothers absconded with the copy of my woman code manual and buried it in the orchard, along with my decapitated Barbie dolls."

Jim had to laugh. A Barbie-doll graveyard at Crabapple Farm. Some far in the future archeologist was going to have a field day with that one. "What's the real story, Trix?" Relationship points. He shook his head.

Trixie pinked up, that lovely rose color that simply fascinated him. "Ummm, seeing as how you are the brother of one of the women involved in this, you may not want to know."

Jim scrubbed his face. "Just don't give me any graphic details." He didn't want to have to go over and re-arrange Brian's familiar features.

Trixie leaned back, picked up a stray piece of bacon and popped it in her mouth. "Di and Honey have been rehashing all the romantic details of our lives with Mart and Brian. Not…not personal stuff," she hastened to add. "Just, you know, all the romantic things you did, the wedding and all that. My brothers seem to have gotten the mistaken idea that Di and Honey are trying to pressure them into marriage. So the guys kind of stepped back a little," Trixie hunted for the right words. "Di and Honey are not trying to get them to propose, and they began to feel all they were good for was um…the occasional um… roll in the hay."

Although Jim was well aware of the fact that both Belden men did indeed have physical relationships with their girlfriends, he couldn't consider what Trixie was telling him as true. No way. "I can't believe that, Trix," he remarked. "The girls must be mistaken."

Trixie's head shot up at that. "Why must the girls be mistaken? It's entirely possible my numbskull brothers put two and two together to make five," she snorted, blue fire in her eyes.

Jim held up his hands. He was not going to get into a fight with his wife over her brothers' sex lives. No way. "Did they try talking to each other?" Logical Jim came to the rescue.

"Nope. Nobody's talking and worst of all, Di and Honey are on strike and the guys don't even know it." Trixie looked at Jim, his mouth open in astonishment, and began to laugh. "You're right, Jim. Let's stay out of this one."

Jim breathed a sigh of relief. "Excited about starting at Locard in a day or two?"

Trixie's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Beyond excited, James. I looked at my first case, did I tell you? When you were over in New Jersey." Trixie explained briefly about the case, not disclosing any names or other confidential information, but what would have been reported in the papers. "I keep having these weird dreams about it."

"Not nightmares, right?" Jim's ears perked up. He would not have her upset and distracted by the Locard Society or anyone else. There was plenty of time for her to become familiar with all the gory details murder investigations uncovered.

"No, not nightmares," Trixie said slowly. "More like the dead guy is talking to me and telling me to find his murderer, but he can't tell me who." She smiled. "He tells me it's my dream!"

Jim reached over and ran his hand through her tousled curls. "Smart guy," he teased. "What do you say to cuddling up on the couch with your husband and a movie about big, green ogre? Let's leave murder, mayhem, and relationship points behind." He grinned at her, leaned over and brushed her lips with a kiss.

Taking a deep breath, lips still tingling from his touch, she smiled back. "Sounds perfectly perfect to me."

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada**

He ditched the Mercedes for a smaller black Honda, one of a million on the streets of the big city. The Mercedes was too distinctive.

He stood in Becky's room, looking across the river at the island. He felt a little out of sorts; Becky wasn't doing at all well today. There was no way she could know about the little adventure he had. No way at all. It was just a coincidence.

Darkness was coming, and he promised himself, this time it would be for Becky. He turned to her, one sapphire eye staring at him, not blinking. "I'm going out tonight. I'll find someone just perfect, Becky."

"Be careful." Her voice was hoarse, low. "Don't get carried away. You have to watch them first and pick the best one. Don't be hasty."

He crossed over to her, took her good hand in his. "I'll be careful. I know we're close this time." He ran a hand through her tousled blonde curls, jumped back when some of the hair came off in his fingers, leaving a small, ugly bald patch.

Time was getting short. If his hand trembled a bit as he shook the loose hair off, she didn't notice it. If she died, then god help the rest of them out there. He'd make them _all_ pay.


	14. Tabloid Trix Chapter 13

Tabloid Trix Chapter 13

To: .edu

From: .net

RE: Locard Pin Misuse

Professor Masse, thank you for bringing this issue to our attention. As soon as our schedule permits, we will be in contact with you to arrange an in-person interview.

William Brietling, Ph.D

Luke Masse slipped his smartphone into its leather holster on his belt. _Checkmate, Mrs. Frayne_. He could only imagine how grateful Dr. Brietling would be to recover that coveted little symbol. Grateful enough, perhaps, to come in and address his classes. Wouldn't that be a coup for him! Maybe a visit to a Locard Society banquet and case review, where he could impress the members with his brilliant mind and deep understanding of the criminal psyche. He was almost indebted to Trixie Frayne in a twisted sort of way. Her arrogance in wearing the Locard pin would be the impetus for the hasty departure of the two little rich girls playing Nancy Drew.

**Back at Trixie and Jim's…**

In the dead of the night, Jim was lightly snoring. His eyelids were alive with the movement of his eyes, tracking the vivid dream that was his current reality.

_He was on the manicured lawn of the rebuilt Ten Acres, trotting with a plastic box kite high in the sky. He was distracted by the high pitched giggles and smiled down at the three-year old boy. His son. Bailey James Frayne had his dad's red hair, emerald eyes, crooked grin and lanky frame. Trixie complained he didn't have any of her DNA at all. Jim placed the string in Bailey's dimpled hands, watching how he squinted up at the kite, fascinated by its aerodynamics. _

"_Flying the kite, Daddy!" he squealed in only the way an overly excited toddler could, almost high-pitched enough to make your ears bleed. "By myself!"___

_Jim laughed and agreed. "All by yourself, Bails!" He shot a smile and a wink to the woman standing on the porch, her hand wrapped around the smaller hand of their nearly one-year old Dominick, who, but for his size and his blue eyes, was an almost exact clone of his big brother. Such a big name for such a little guy. _

_Nicky was patting Trixie's very pregnant midsection, pointing up at the kite. Another set of almost-twins, Jim thought, grinning wickedly."C'mon Nicky, help Bailey with the kite," Jim laughed. Trixie released their son's hand, and his chubby little legs sped over to where his father and brother were playing. Jim bent down from his great height and kissed the copper curls of his youngest son and put a little of the string into his tiny hand, to the accompaniment of his excited babbling._

_Jim looked up at the kite, merrily flying in the crystal blue sky, and then back at his wife. She sat down on the porch steps, all the love she had shining out of those incredible eyes. A movement on the edge of the preserve caught his vision._

_A shadow. _

_A deep, dark shadow that seemed to be lengthening, stretching toward….Trixie._

_It wasn't a regular shadow, Its blackness was a terrifying void, roiling and oily, stealing across the grass, snaking its way towards his pregnant wife. He grabbed the two boys; startled, they let go of the string and the kite fluttered away. Jim was running, running with them trying to scream to Trixie, to tell her to get out of the _way_, move Trixie! _Run,_ Trixie, darling _run_…_

He awoke sitting straight up in bed, his heart pounding and her name on his lips. He stole a look over at her, sleeping soundly, her chest slightly moving with every blessed breath she took. He was cold, clammy with the sweat of fear as a shaking hand brushed some curls from her dreamy face. _It was only a dream; no, not a dream, a nightmare._

Jim slid down in the bed, getting as close as humanly possible to her, bare skin against bare skin, his strong arm sliding around her waist, his large hand protectively on her flat stomach, as though shielding the lives yet to come. _His family_. She murmured in her sleep, her silky, bare leg sliding down his. She was safe, safe in his arms, and he would die before he'd let anything harm her.

Jim buried his face in her thick, golden curls, loving the tickle as his breathing quieted down. In that twilight area, just before sleep claims you, he had but one thought fluttering at the edges of his conscious mind. _Something wicked this way comes. _

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

He sighted a possible objective at the small coffee shop near the university. She was sitting alone, engrossed in her laptop. From long experience, he could look at her and sum her physical attributes up in a few seconds. Petite, fine boned, with large brown eyes and a pert little nose, probably pushing 21. She was a bit lacking in the chest department, but it was a minor flaw that could be overlooked. She had short brown hair, but that could be easily remedied. He had an endless supply of wigs, and if she was a keeper, well, Miss Clairol or L'Oreal and time would give her the long golden ringlets he craved ._How pretty her white skin would look dressed in red._ He shook that thought off. That was for the _others._

She was dressed casually, with a hint of elegance. Black wool slacks, black flats; a soft grey twinset in cashmere. He sat in the dark corner he claimed as his, watching her through his tinted lenses. His hair was a bit shaggy, endearing to women everywhere, and he showcased his body in some Ralph Lauren Polo. Rich, but not too rich; noticeable but forgettable a moment later. Blessed with his parents' good genes, he looked every bit the grad student.

He stood up, picked up his messenger bag and tossed his empty cup. Standing in line, he ordered an herbal tea. She was the type, he knew, who appreciated a man who enjoyed a nice soothing cup of chamomile or a refreshing peppermint blast. Waiting patiently for his turn, he went with the chamomile. He just had a _feeling._

He walked slowly, waiting for the perfect moment; it came when a couple of jocks shoved lightly against him. He deliberately jostled her table and her cup fell to the ground as she jumped up, avoiding the splash of her lukewarm tea.

"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry," he said in his deep, cultured voice, squatting down and picking up her cup with the few drops of the tea still encased in it. He dropped a few of the extra napkins he had grabbed, just for this purpose. "I should have been paying more attention to where I was going." He smiled at her, a disarming, charming, bright white smile as he continued to mop up the mess.

"Oh, it wasn't your fault," she smiled back. Her voice was soft, her smile as white as snow. "They should know enough not to fool around in here." She grimaced at the back of the noisy boys at the counter, making a nuisance of themselves and causing the line to grow ever longer.

He stood up to let her get a good look at him. "Let me buy you a new one," he begged. "Really, it was partly my fault," as she shook her head no. "I'd feel ever so much better if you would let me perform this small act of kindness for you."

She took his measure for a second: tastefully expensive clothes and shoes; a Louis Vuitton messenger bag. They were in a public place…what could it hurt? "Okay," she curved her lips up. "Chamomile tea, plain."

"Oh, here, have mine," he offered with a shy smile. "The line is kind of long right now, and I can wait until it thins out a bit, if you don't mind."

The cup of tea was passed from his hand to hers, and his eyes flared a bit behind those colored lenses. "My name is Livvy Dufresne," she held out a small, well-manicured hand. He really was rather charming and shy.

He hooked a chair with his foot, sat down and took her hand in his. "Jordan," he replied, sealing her fate with the clasp of his hand. "Jordan Jonsson from Minnesota."

**In the hallway of the 14****th**** floor…**

Diana Lynch let herself out of the apartment, making sure the door was securely locked. As she turned, her patrician little nose almost ran directly into a broad chest. Startled, she dropped her bookbag and stepped back, plastering herself against the door.

She raised her violet eyes to the concerned face of one Martin Belden. "Sorry Di, I thought you heard me," he apologized. Wasn't _this_ a lucky break? Him and her, in a deserted hallway. Alone. As soon as Mart saw her door crack open, he hurried over.

She raised a slender hand to her rapidly beating heart. "God, Mart, you scared ten years off of me," she complained. Her sultry voice wrapped around him, gave a little squeeze right _there_,

He couldn't help himself. He hadn't seen her in more than a week, and it all he could seem to do was stare into those violet eyes as his mouth went dry. A deep longing tore through him as he catalogued all the little changes that he missed. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, still as sleek and shiny as midnight; her skin still glowing with the remnants of a summer tan. Her body, clothed in a pretty patterned sundress, was still the male playground that haunted his dreams.

But something was different. He just couldn't put his finger on it.

Di watched Mart's eyes flare with desire, and felt a little tingle run through her. She wanted, oh how she wanted, just to ditch class and go with him, somewhere, anywhere, alone. She knew he was feeling it too. She was almost there; in fact her luscious mouth opened to make that exact suggestion when Mart spoke first.

"Whaddaya say we go over to Java City, have some coffee, wait until the coast is clear and head back here for some quality time together," he waggled a sandy brow at her,

It didn't matter that she _almost_ made the same suggestion to him. Instead, her violet eyes became stormy and she literally saw red. "Martin Belden! Is that _all_ you think I'm good for?" she yelled. Loudly.

Mart cringed back as she poked a finger into his chest. "Is it?" she challenged, her other hand on her hip. "You are just so…so…Neanderthal!" She turned and stalked off to the elevator, simply seething.

He had a great view of her sexy, yet angry hips swaying back and forth as she made for the elevator. Almost mesmerized, she had already pushed the call button before he broke out of the desire-induced haze he was in.

"Wha…what did I do?" he yelled after her, trotting after her. One of the elevators opened and she stepped inside and turned around. His Di would wait for him. He was sure of that, as sure as his name was Mart Belden. They'd straighten this out.

Instead, she waited until he was almost there, and pressed the 'close door' button. His last view of her was the smirk she had on her face as the doors slid shut in his face.

"Does this mean you don't want to?" His voice trailed off miserably at the swoosh of the doors in his face. He pressed his aching head against the cool metal, and tried to decipher exactly where the few words they said to each other ended with a magnificently angry Di and another day of frustration for him.

He just wished he could figure the whole thing out. All he knew for certain was that his sister and that blasted redhead she married were to blame. On that point, he was quite sure. Jim Frayne owed him big, man. And he was going to make damn sure that his brother-in-law paid up.

**At Cop College…**

Francis "Frank" McCormick, the Dean of Students, started his day early, much earlier than even his secretary suspected. Therefore, he was startled when his phone shrilled out in the silence of his office.

_Now who got into trouble?_ He sighed to himself. The semester was just beginning, and to be sure there would be any number of freshmen who got themselves into some kind of a fix. In his years in the office, he had fielded calls ranging from students arrested for underage drinking to overly involved parents who demanded their child receive an apology from the mean professor who gave a bad grade on the first quiz of the year.

"Dean McCormick," he answered shortly.

"Frank, it's Will Brietling," came the deep, rumbling voice of his friend and patron of the school.

"Will! This is a surprise! What are you doing up so early?"

"I was wondering what your schedule looks like later. Stephen and I would like to meet with you today about a little matter we 'd like to discuss in person." Will effectively shut down any questions Frank McCormick might want to ask.

Frank brought his schedule up. It was jam-packed as usual. He sent a terse email to his secretary, instructing her to cancel the meeting at two o'clock with the grounds crew, and to further clear his schedule for the rest of the day.

"I'm free after two," Frank said.

"Humph. Probably cleared your schedule for me," Will responded, with that damn pipeline he had into everyone's brains. "Come to my house and we'll talk."

"Sure, sure, Will. I'll be there." He couldn't help but wonder what his friend had up his sleeve, and what he was going to task him with _now_.

Both men replaced the receivers on their respective hooks, one with a satisfied smirk; the other musing on what he was getting into at the Locard Society.

**In Professor Masse's Class…**

His voice was droning on and on, mouthing the lecture regarding the criminal justice system in the United States. The class was more than halfway over, and his mind was elsewhere.

His eyes glittered as they lit on Trixie Frayne. She was still wearing the Locard pin, jauntily perched on the collar of the shirt she wore. Although her computer was perched in front of her, she wasn't taking copious notes like the Wheeler girl. She wasn't even looking at him, and he didn't know if that ticked him off more than the pin. When she did glance over at him, her blue eyes were remarkably cold; her expressive face couldn't hide the disdain.

He had backed off, didn't single either of the two girls out for any of the special Luke Masse Dummy Treatment. _Tactics, Mrs Frayne, tactics that you know nothing about._ Professor Masse knew exactly what she was thinking.

She was declaring a premature victory in their little war. Oh, he could be magnanimous. Conceding a defeat today, even tomorrow, right up until Mrs. Frayne was pulled in front of the eminent criminologists of the Locard Society. _Then_ she'd realize who won the war.

Trixie, on the other hand, was half-listening to Masse's stultifying lecture and the other, more active half of her brain was engaged with puzzling out the cold case she was assigned. Dr. Brietling and Stephen Jensen had assured her that, in a lot of the cold cases they reviewed, the cases would remain either unsolved, or with not enough evidence to take to trial and convict.

There was something there, she was sure of it. Just a little something she was missing, something the insurance investigators and detectives had missed, too. It was tantalizing, like a word on the tip of your tongue; you kept worrying at it until your brain allowed you to spit it out.

Just last night she had another dream, Jerry and his hangdog face, sitting in Moms' kitchen. In his hospital gown! Her grandmother – Moms' mother – was making her special cookies, and both women were talking to him as if it were the most normal thing in the world to have a dead guy in a revealing hospital gown having a chat at the kitchen table.

"Our au pair girl was Swedish, you know," Jerry was saying to Grandma Johnson. "Cute little thing. When she was upset or excited, all you could hear was a stream of Swedish rolling out at a mile a minute."

Grandma Johnson, with the same bright blue eyes as her daughter Helen, lightly smacked Jerry's hand as he reached for a cookie. "None for you with that thing attached," she motioned to the portable IV. She rubbed her hands on the brightly patterned apron that swamped her delicate figure. "And you, Trixie! Help this poor man. Use the brain God gifted you with."

In her dream, Trixie picked up a warm cookie and stared at it. She had the solution. Somewhere. She was just about to ask her grandmother, when Jim's arm slid around her, his face nestled in her curls. She rose out of the dream slowly, felt Jim's strong body spooning hers. She slid a bare leg down his, and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"Trix?" Honey poked at her. "Where are you? Lecture, and I do mean _lecture_," she said with a sarcastic lilt, "Is finally over." Honey busied herself shutting her laptop and stowing it in her messenger bag. Masse himself practically dashed out of the room as soon as he uttered his last sleep-inducing word.

"Gleeps, Honey, I was a million miles away. Maybe I heard every fifth word," she laughed, "I hope you took good notes."

"Wasn't anything that we didn't already know, didn't already do or didn't already see," Honey sighed. "Can't we just skip this whole part and go straight to opening up our agency?" Walking out of the classroom, Honey let her frustrations show. "We probably put more crooks in jail than that disgusting Professor Masse. Probably testified in more trials, too."

"Not if you count the times he had to testify when he gave out parking tickets," Trixie's voice was dry. "I can see it now, a whole courtroom of traffic violators asleep as Masse explained in seven million words why he gave that little old lady from Pasadena a ticket for a busted taillight."

Honey giggled at the mental picture Trixie's words conjured. "He would have a great future in infomercials," she mused. "He could read _Silas Marner_ and a couple more of those deadly dull classics and sell them as sleep aids. Guaranteed to cure your insomnia!"

Both women started off giggling, which then morphed into a full-blown laugh attack. As they leaned against each other, tears streaming from their dancing eyes, Trixie suddenly _knew_.

She finally knew how Brenda Harper killed her husband.

She couldn't wait to tell Will and Stephen tomorrow.

**At the Locard Society, later that afternoon…**

Frank McCormick bypassed the office portion of the brownstone that served as both the Locard Society headquarters and the home of Will Brietling. Taking the elegant staircase two steps at a time, he knew that Will and Steve would be waiting in the smaller drawing room that was now Will's man cave.

Cave, however, was somewhat of a misnomer. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow; the worn leather chairs gathered 'round a low, quite battered table. Hanging on the wall was a huge plasma television and just below, all the controls and electronics one needed nowadays for that home theater experience.

Anna left him at the doorway into the room with a murmured, "I'll be back with coffee." McCormick had a few moments to study the room's two occupants. The men looked quite relaxed…always a plus when dealing with two criminologists.

Will lifted his gaunt face, faded blue eyes twinkling into the wary ones of his friend Frank, and jovially bade him to enter the male sanctuary. "Don't just stand there, Frank. Come on over and join the fray."

"Fray? Didn't see no fray," he shot back at Will. He sat on one of the chairs, elbows on his knees and his hands clasped between. "All I see are a couple of old guys shootin' the sh…"

"And here comes Anna with our coffee," Stephen announced loudly.

Anna placed the sterling silver set on the table and served. Once this nicety was taken care of, and the men shoveling in her thin cucumber sandwiches, she made her own cup and perched, as usual, on the arm of Will's chair.

"So, why the summons, Will?" Frank looked directly into Will's mischievous eyes. "Are you and Stephen endowing another scholarship at the school?"

"I think four scholarships are quite enough at this time," Anna scolded.

Frank shrugged and spread his hands out. "A poor dean can only hope," he shot back, not offended at all.

Will leaned forward, a thumb rubbing his mustache. "What can you tell me about a Professor Luke Masse? Teaches criminology."

Frank's brows snapped together, as he placed his delicate cup safely on the table and sat back with a gusty sigh. "What's your interest in Professor Masse?" A look of horror crossed his face. "You're not thinking of offering him a place at Locard are you?"

"Furthest thing from our minds," quipped Stephen in that tony British accent.

Frank blew out another breath, and ran a slender hand through his iron-gray hair. "Masse was a cop out in La-la land for a few years, then became a detective. Worked mostly the smaller cases, a few homicides, shoplifting, burglary. Those types of things. He continued on with school while he walked the beat and eventually earned a doctorate." He shifted in the chair, uncomfortable for once. "He accidentally, as far as I can tell, fell into that big serial killer case they had out there a few years back."

"I think I remember that one; the perp thought he was a werewolf and went on killing sprees during the full moon." Will shook his head. "Only in LA."

"Yes, and Masse caught him by sheer luck if you ask me. He wrote a bestseller about it, _The Werewolf Murders_, offended a lot of cops who actually worked the case, retired from the force, and landed here as a professor."

"You don't like him." Anna's statement hung between them, giving voice to what Frank was dancing around.

"No. No I don't. I was on sabbatical when he was hired, and now he has tenure." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You remember. When I came back the school was financially troubled, with falling enrollment and we were losing our reputation. The person they chose as Acting Dean was quite… inept. I was inundated when I returned and I admit, kind of brushed off the complaints about Masse as not important enough to address at the time."

"What kind of complaints, Frank?" Will persisted.

"We have a lot of complaints that he does not make the class very interesting. I wrote those off as kids complaining that they needed to be entertained. A lot about his ego, how he relates everything back to him and his illustrious career. I chalked that up to tortured creative minds, you know_, authors_. They all have a healthy dose of me me me. But lately the complaints are more troubling. He picks a few favorites, coddles them along, tries to get the other professors to give his darlings a break, A few women have come forward, stating he's implying women shouldn't pursue careers in law enforcement. Nothing overt, that I can catch him on, just subtle hints."

Will and Stephen exchanged a look. Frank, catching the non-verbal communicated, decided to ask his own burning question. "Why are you two so interested in a second rate professor?"

Will took the lead. "We have received numerous communications from Professor Masse through the Locard website. Mostly, they're just the usual sycophantic drivel. He did contact us recently about his catching on to the misuse of a Locard pin by a student in one of his classes."

"Well, that's a good thing, correct?"

"Frank, I know you don't know every student enrolled in the school. However, I am positive that you are aware that Trixie Belden Frayne and Madeleine Wheeler are attending John Jay," Will said gently.

"Oh, my god, don't tell me he offended the daughter or daughter-in-law of Matthew Wheeler," Frank groaned.

"They're more than relatives of a multi-billionaire, Frank," Stephen said.

"I'm aware of that. I was extremely impressed by their resumes. I did take the liberty of checking out some of their more fantastic stories. Those two women are amazing."

"Frank. Trixie Frayne is the one wearing the Locard pin. We know all about it." Will took a deep breath. "Trixie has accepted a membership in the Locard Society. She is the youngest, and the first non-professional we have ever extended this honor to. Not only will she be an important contributing member, but she has accepted a paid internship with us. She is, bluntly, a miraculously gifted detective, and to a lesser extent, Honey Wheeler. I don't need to tell you what an honor this is for the school, to have a freshman student accepted into Locard."

Stephen took up the narrative. "Trixie is a very forthright, almost blunt, woman. Luke Masse came directly to us to complain that a student was misusing the pin. This leads us to believe that he never asked her about it. She would never brag about it, but she would tell him if he asked, in private."

Frank McCormick was stunned. For a moment, his mouth opened and closed in a great imitation of a goldfish. "So what you're telling me is…"

"Stephen and I are going to train Trixie, and eventually train Honey. We have certain plans for them we are not at liberty to discuss at the moment. However, we are concerned that Professor Masse may have a negative impact on them, and Frank, these two women are far beyond Criminology 101."

Frank spread his hand out, palms up. "So what do you want me to do? I can't fire him, not without cause."

"We are going to invite him here for a little chat. I just want you to keep in mind we may have to ask the school to grant life experience credits in place of this class," Will said. "You may also wish to have a little chat with our arrogant professor."

"Please don't release any information Trixie yet," Stephen ordered. "She will be formally inducted next Thursday, and I suppose, the news will out then. Until that time, we prefer she keeps a low profile."

Frank stood, pumped each man's hand in turn. "You can count on it." He shook his head. "She must really be something, this girl detective of yours."

"Have no doubt of that, Frank. You'll be adding her name to your wall of distinguished graduates long before you've ever added any other name. And maybe," Will mused, "Maybe you'll have to come up with a new category for her."

**In a warehouse in New Jersey…**

The printing presses were furiously rolling, churning out copy after copy of _OMG!. _Thousands of reproductions of Jim's sexy construction worker stance, his handsome face intent, those emerald eyes flashing, were bundled together for eventual delivery to newsstands, supermarkets and other venues across the country.

The women who were sorting the subscriber copies were talking among themselves. Nanci D'Rue was there, watching the presses roar. She was inordinately pleased when the women unanimously voted James Winthrop Frayne II the guy they'd most like to have put _his_ shoes under _their_ bed.

Yup, _OMG! _ was going to make history. She just knew it.


	15. Tabloid Trix Chapter 14

Tabloid Trix Chapter 14

The text on her phone was simple and to the point. _Bring your laptop. A taxi will meet you out front of your apartment at noon. Look for a yellow van with the words Montego Bay Taxi Service and a logo of a sunset and palm trees. Your driver's name is Bastian.- W_

Trixie hugged the information to herself, much as she kept the secret of solving Jerry's murder. At least, she _thought_ she solved it. A conference with Will and Stephen would make sure she was headed in the right direction.

Jim, of course, was suspicious of her ebullient mood the night before. He tried various methods of extracting the information, but for once, she was tight-lipped. She just let him know she was excited about her first day at work, and left it at that. If he glanced quizzically at her several times during the evening, she pretended not to notice. She couldn't share this, not even with him, or Honey. She needed to know that she could be a real detective, on her own terms.

Noon found the habitually late Mrs. Frayne exiting the apartment building under the watchful eye of Mel the doorman. Outside was the yellow van with an absurdly bright logo of a sunset and silhouetted palm trees, with the just as vivid name painted underneath. A dreadlocked man in a loud shirt and cargo shorts was leaning against the side door.

"Bastian?" Trixie smiled at him, and received a large grin back.

"Mrs. Frayne, I presume." He swept down in a bow, dreads flying. "Bastian, at your service." The lilt of Jamaica was in his voice. He turned to open the side door for her.

"Trixie, just call me Trixie." She clambered onto the seat as he slid the door shut, buckling herself in and setting down her messenger bag,

Bastian got behind the wheel and pulled out into traffic, zigging and zagging in a death defying automobile ballet in the manner of big city taxi drivers everywhere.

"Whoa!" Trixie cringed as the taxi squeezed into a space between two trucks and shot out into an intersection.

"No worry, Mrs. Trixie. Dr. Will made me promise to get you there in one piece." Bastian turned around and winked at her.

"Eyes on the road! Oh my God!" Trixie would have catapulted forward into Bastian's lap had she not been wearing the seat belt, as he jammed on the brakes, stopping within an inch of the Metro Bus.

"Pretty good, mon, no? I'm de best taxi driver in all New York City."

Trixie stared down at her white knuckles and just had to chuckle. "Maybe you are," she agreed as he made another lane change, nearly sideswiping two cars and a truck.

Bastian pulled up in front of the Locard building, practically standing on the brake. "See, Mrs. Trixie? One piece!"

"Barely," Trixie muttered under her breath as the cheerful man hopped out to open her door.

"I'll be back for you! You just wait for Bastian!" He hopped back into the van and took off in a screech of tires and brakes. Trixie just shook her head. This was going to be an adventure!

She turned to the doorway, and Anna Ciccone stood there, a smile wreathing her kind face. "Hi Anna!"

"Hi Trixie. I hope you weren't too scared driving with Bastian. He actually is a wonderful driver," Anna laughed. "Although your foot will get tired from pressing down on the imaginary brake."

"Don't I know it!" She shook her aching right foot. Trixie followed the older woman into the brownstone.

"I'm going to show you to your office and let you put down your bag," Anna said. "After you get situated a bit, you can meet with Will and Stephen."

Much more relaxed than she was on her first visit, Trixie committed the layout to memory. A closed door with a plaque stating Stephen Jensen; obviously. Stephen's office. The hallway contained numerous framed awards issued to Will, Steve or the Locard Society. A few steps from Stephen's office, Anna stopped and pointed. "This is your office, Trixie," she said gently.

Trixie's eyes widened and she raised a shaking hand to the plaque on her door. Touching a finger to it, she traced the outline of her name. "It says Investigator on it." The rose color washed over her face. It was _almost_ her dearest dream come true. The only thing that would have made it better would be to have Honey's office right next door.

Anna opened the door and Trixie stepped inside. "It's just perfectly perfect," she breathed. A small desk, state of the art computer system, file cabinets and a bookshelf of her very own. Anna crossed over to the desk as Trixie drank in the surroundings.

"Your business cards are in the top drawer," she informed Trixie. "There is a key to the outside door, which you can slide on your key ring. There is also a security code you need to enter to get in. If you flip up the Locard plaque on the outside of the building, the keypad is there. Once you code in the sequence, you will have 20 seconds to unlock and enter, otherwise the door will lock again. Once you are inside, the alarm resets. The code is changed every thirty days." Anna watched the young detective's expressive face. Yes, Will and Stephen made the right choice. Trixie and her friend Honey would find a home here for their skills. She would bank on it.

"Once you get yourself situated, you can walk down the hall to Will's office. They're expecting you." She smiled and clicked the door closed after her.

Trixie crossed over to the desk, rubbing her fingers gently over its polished wood surface. She sat down in the comfortable chair, opening the desk drawer. A box of cards was inside, cream colored with the Locard logo in the center. In the right hand corner was her name, in blue. Trixie Frayne, and Investigator was positioned below. Her office number and Locard email address were printed out on the left bottom corner.

She ran her fingers over the card, and clutched it to her heart, eyes filling with tears. She dreamed about this day for years, wondering what it would be like to finally be accepted and not thought of as a pesky kid always getting into trouble.

It felt…unbelievably right.

She took some cards, put them in the sleeve thoughtfully provided, pulled her purse out of her messenger bag, and slipped the cards inside. The shiny new key was stowed safely on her key ring, which seemed to be growing daily. She slipped her laptop into the port on the side of the desk, where she supposed it would sync up to the main computers.

She glanced at the desk phone, Two direct lines, one to Will and one to Stephen; her direct extension and several general lines. She removed her cell phone from her purse and texted her direct number to Jim and Honey.

Trixie rose from her chair, straightened out her khaki slacks and twitched her gold tank top and matching light sweater into place. Rubbing her hands nervously down her thighs, she organized her thoughts and went to tell Will and Stephen exactly how Jerry Harper met his untimely demise.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

He stood on the deck, looking over towards the island across from his house. Becky had been particularly querulous, flooding him with questions about the latest possibility. Yes, she was pretty; yes, she was petite; no, she didn't have any close friends in the big city. Nobody she could make a call to and exclaim "I've just met a wonderful guy!"

Nobody that could trace Jordan Jonsson back to this house, and to him.

They exchanged telephone numbers; hers, her cell phone; his, a disposable. He knew she was hoping he'd call. He watched her leave the coffee shop, get into her tiny Mini. He followed her home, a small house she was renting in a quiet neighborhood. He would spend the next several weeks observing her, calculating when he could safely escort her into his world. _Becky's_ world.

The thick trees of the island held his other killing ground. The one Becky knew nothing about. The one where he…_experimented_. Yes, that was the correct word. _Experimented_. It was almost like his own, personal body farm!

He walked over to the railing on the deck, leaning out and dreaming of his island. Of the things he could do there, things that weren't under Becky's critical eye. When he brought the second one there, he surveyed the area, examined the thing he left previously. Small animals were doing their best to de-flesh what the maggots didn't get. The odor of decomposition was stirring to his senses.

The second thing was a disappointment. She faded fast, pumping out the slick red stuff so swiftly that she was gone in a few minutes. It wasn't as much fun to play with it when there was no lovely scarlet to wash over him, over his skilled hands.

He removed her eyes as was his habit. Looking at the barely human remains, he was overcome with a desire he couldn't leash. For the first time, he sheathed himself and entered a woman's body that wasn't Becky.

After he was done, he sang to the moon.

**At Kaitlin's and Aidan's apartment…**

Kaitlin re-read the note for the third time, a stunned expression on her face. Aidan had early morning classes; she had a free day since her professor canceled the one class she had.

_Kait,_ (she read)

_I'll be home later than usual. I have a date after class with a girl I met here at school. Just a coffee thing. I figure if you're out there trying, I might as well be, too. _

_We'll see how this goes. Talk to you later._

_-A_

She flopped down on the chair with a huff and then her lips curved up. If she had to go through the whole boring, stupid date with Christian again to make her little brother see there was more than Trixie Frayne out there, she'd do it. A thousand times and a thousand ridiculous dates.

The knock at the door startled her. It could only mean one thing. Since Mel didn't call up to announce anyone, it had to either be Dan or one of the other Bob-Whites. Crossing to the door, she peered out of the peephole.

_Dan._

She could take the coward's way out. Pretend she wasn't home, go back to relaxing in her living room. But that wasn't Kaitlin Mary McCourt. She threw back her shoulders and opened the door.

"Hello, Dan." Her voice was quiet, but the sexy rasp of it made Dan shiver. She gave him a little smile, nothing like the high wattage grins she usually greeted him with.

"Kaitlin. Hi." Now that he was there, he was tongue-tied. Just seeing her again, smelling her scent, was tying him up in the most labyrinthine of knots. His hands fisted at his side, then slowly unclenched. He, Daniel Mangan, Irish blarney man extraordinaire, couldn't find the words to string together.

Kaitlin raised an eyebrow, waited a beat for him to say something. When he didn't, just kept looking at her while his mouth opened and closed fishlike, she wryly asked, "Is there something you need?"

_Yeah. You._ Those two little words, conjured up by her innocent question, made his eyes widen and heart beat in a painful thump. This… _feeling_ he had for his Irish beauty was distinctly uncomfortable for a man who took great pains not to get involved.

"Dan?"

"Ummm, can we…can we talk?" The words came out low and hoarse, his voice rusty as if disused for a spell. He was chagrined to discover his palms were becoming clammy with sweat.

Kaitlin stepped aside without a word, and swung the door shut after him. Letting him lead, wondering what he wanted to talk about, she followed him to her miniscule living room. At least it was miniscule by 14th floor standards.

He still didn't speak, so she did. "Aidan's at school and afterwards he has a date," she informed Dan, letting him know they were alone, and he didn't have to worry about interruptions. Outwardly composed, she sat on the recliner across from the couch before her knees gave way.

Dan jammed his hands in his pockets. They had a distinct tendency to want to run through that waterfall of obsidian hair. "Aidan's dating?" he grabbed onto the tidbit. "Really?"

"Well, let's just say he's taking baby steps." When Dan didn't respond, she said gently, "I don't think you came here to discuss Aidan's social life. What did you want to talk about?" She had a sneaking suspicion he wanted to tell her he was dating other people now that they were in the big City as opposed to Sleepyside, with its limited opportunities. Not that they were ever exclusive, but in his way, Dan was just as honorable as Jim Frayne or Brian Belden.

Dan was at a loss. Now that he was here, he didn't know how to begin. Or where to begin. He wished he had the suave moves and golden tongue to finesse Kaitlin, but all that was there was a deep aching sort of feeling. "How was your date with Christian?"

She stared down at her restless fingers, picking at a loose thread on the chair. She could lie, tell him she had a fabulous time and was seeing him again. She could make herself breezy and light, not let him see how miserable she was. But, she considered for a long moment, that would be what the old Kaitlin would do. Cover up, pretend, lie. Instead, she took a deep breath and aimed those grey-green eyes in his direction.

"It had to be the most boring date I ever experienced," she said dryly, a small smile curving her lips. "If I had to listen to one more soliloquy about how many seamstresses it took to sew on the sequins for the costumes for _Hello Dolly,_ I would have strangled him with Tony Curtis' girdle from _Some Like it Hot._"

He was startled into a bark of laughter. "That bad, huh?" Though her fine eyes were glinting mischievously at him, he could see something else lurking in their depths. "My, uh, my date with Elle didn't go too well either," he shared. "I…I had actually forgotten about it until she called to remind me."

What did he expect her to say to him? _Sorry you didn't get lucky?_ _Better luck with the next bimbo_ _you date?_ She just didn't say anything, casting her eyes down and resuming her nervous pick, pick, picking at the thread.

They sat there in an uncomfortable silence; neither knowing what the other expected. Dan thought back about what he told Brian and Mart. _Just talk to their ladies and straighten everything out._ It was about time he took some of his own advice and stopped trying to be cool. Because, he reminded himself sarcastically, it was pretty difficult to be frosty when your blood was hammering at you with a rising tide of hot need.

He rose, knelt in front of a surprised Kaitlin. He took her restive hands in his, stopping their edgy movement. "Kait, I…I had a miserable time. All I kept wanting was you. All I kept seeing was you walking off, looking so pretty, like a picture, with that blonde-haired jerk. All I kept imagining," and he kissed her knuckles, "Was that guy's hands on you, his lips on you, where mine should have been."

She shivered once, smiled a bit tremulously. "You were there with us, Dan," she admitted. "In my head, making your corny jokes, making me laugh. You were there with me all the time."

"So what are we going to do about this?" he asked her, his thumbs rubbing small circles on her knuckles. "It appears we, um, don't much like dating other people."

"It appears so, Mr. Mangan," she deadpanned.

"So, what do you say we um, don't date other people." His lips were so close to hers, she could feel his breath.

"Let's just take it slow and easy," she inched incrementally closer. "And see where this takes us."

He couldn't answer, because he closed the gap and figured his mouth had much more enjoyable things to do than to make words.

**Back at Locard…**

Trixie knocked once and opened the door. She was fairly humming with nerves, but relaxed just a bit at the hearty greetings and welcomes from Will and Stephen. Inviting her to join them in the conversation area, Will enquired if her office was satisfactory.

"Gleeps yes! It's…it's so much more than I ever hoped," she practically exploded, her irrepressible curls bouncing. "Thank you so much." She gifted them with her sunny smile, and placed her laptop on the table. She'd need it in a little while.

"Are you settling in at John Jay?" Will wanted to see what she would say; see if she would mention Professor Masse and the Locard pin.

Her smile dimmed a bit. "Most of my classes are really interesting, especially Forensics. The general education ones are pretty standard, I would guess." She deliberately did not mention Luke Masse. She'd handle that, in her own way. _She hoped_.

Sensing her slight discomfort, Will changed the subject. "Did you have a chance to look at the first case file we sent you?" He and Stephen sorted through many files to find one that was not too graphic for Trixie's introduction to Locard. They hadn't chosen that one to present to the Society itself, but figured it would be a good start for Trixie's first days.

Trixie took a deep breath, and paused before responding. She wanted to make sure she organized her thoughts before she presented her facts to Will and Stephen. She wanted to make them proud of her, and proud that they chose her for a coveted membership.

"I think I figured out how Brenda Harper murdered Jerry," she began, in a halting voice. "I also think it could be proved in a court of law that she had criminal intent."

"Okay, Trixie. Take us through the steps." She smiled gratefully at Stephen and opened her laptop. Both he and Will were looking at her with serious expressions, taking her at face value. They didn't denigrate her or try to dissuade her from expounding on her theory.

In short, they were treating her like a colleague, and by doing so, gave her the boost she needed to continue. Once her laptop had loaded, she clicked on the icon and then the video interrogations.

"I reviewed the whole folder at once," she said. "Then I went back over all the bits and pieces. Something was really bothering me, so much so that I started dreaming about it. I was having conversations with Jerry Harper. Several of them, as a matter of fact. Now, before you think I am crazy, I will admit to you that in my dreams, I knew they were dreams and actually it was my own subconscious playing both me and Jerry."

"Whatever it was that was preying on your mind was locked in your subconscious somewhere," Will stated. "Dreams can be a useful investigative tool."

"Jerry kept talking about my mother's Swedish almond bars, but it wasn't until the last dream, the one I had with my mother's mother in it that I put it together. Listen to this recording of the interview with the Swedish au pair girl." Trixie clicked on the icon and the interview played.

"I understand from reading the file that the interpreter was a civilian who was of Swedish ancestry from the insurance company, not an actual paid translator. Over here, the au pair girl is saying Brenda made Jerry milkshakes every day. The translator said Brenda made him nutty protein shakes every day. If you listen closely, the girl says _mandelmjölk_ _skälva_. The gist of what she's saying is relayed by the translator, but not the exact translation." Trixie paused, aware of the rapt attention of the two men in the room.

"In my dream, my grandmother, who is Swedish, was making her special cookies for us. Svenska Mandel Barer, or Swedish Almond bars, the cookies Jerry kept talking to me about. And then it hit me, what the translator missed. The girl said _mandelmjölk skalva_ or **almond** milk shakes, not nutty protein shakes."

Will leaned back against his chair, a small smile playing around his lips. "And what poison smells like bitter almonds and can only be discerned by a few?"

"Cyanide," Trixie responded at once. "I believe that Brenda was administering small doses of cyanide in Jerry's shakes. That's what caused his nausea and vomiting. He didn't die as quickly as she expected, so I believe that when she was in the hospital she gave him a massive dose, which caused his seizure and death." She sat back and chewed on her lower lip, a sure sign of nervousness to those who knew her well.

"And how can this be proved?" Stephen asked. The men shared a satisfied glance. Trixie actually solved a cold case before they even had one lesson with her.

"Exhume the body and have the M.E. examine the vitreous fluid in the eye. Even in an embalmed corpse, the evidence of cyanide poisoning should be there." She paused and gave a small smile. "The internet is a wonderful thing."

"This is excellent work, Trixie. Just excellent. Now, for the next steps. The first thing we need to do is to ensure that you are translating this correctly. We do use the services of a company to provide translations when our work requires them. They are quick and discreet." Will picked up her laptop. "See this icon here that looks like a rolodex? This contains all of our contacts. You can search it by name or keyword. The company we use is Babble On – a cutesy name, to be sure, but they are excellent in their field." Will went on to instruct his engrossed student to email the audio file to the company, and await their response. The bill would be paid via electronic funds transfer, a method previously set up.

Stephen picked up the thread of the conversation. "Once we have the confirmed translation, we'll contact the investigators who brought this case to Locard and inform them of our findings. After that, it's all up to local authorities as to whether or not we have provided them with enough information in order to exhume the body and perhaps, go to trial."

"And now you know the most frustrating part of our work; indeed, any police work," Will stated. "Sometimes we can do everything humanly possible, and still the locals can't or won't act on the information. Maybe the D.A.'s office will feel that a translation of what a scared little girl said is not enough to exhume the body. It's also possible the hospital may have some blood or tissue left that can be tested. So many variables, and many of our cases simply can't be solved. Too old, evidence lost, witnesses dying," Will sighed.

"I know about compromise, and justice not being served," Trixie said, thinking back to Tilney Britten's trial for kidnapping and theft. Mr. Olyfant had received immunity for testifying against Britten, angering Ed and Sharon Lynch. But, as the D.A. explained, it would make a much stronger case. Britten could have said he had no idea Mart and Trixie were in the trailer. With Olyfant providing corroborating evidence that Britten indeed had it out for Trixie, a jury would find it easier to believe than merely the word of a couple of teenagers, according to the D.A.

Will raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you do," he murmured. He picked up a small stack of emails he printed out beforehand. "Now, these are all requests to present cases to Locard. I want you to read through them over the next day or two. See if you can sort them into probables, possibles and declines. We'll discuss them on Thursday." Initially, he was going to give Trixie access to the general email address to view these. But with Luke Masse in the picture, and still to be dealt with, he decided to go low-tech for the time being.

"Scoot," he twinkled at her, "You have a lot of emails to answer. Both Stephen and I forwarded numerous invitations we have to speak, social events and all that to you. _You_ are going to be the bad guy and respectfully decline them. Also, I have forwarded to you the packet of information for the case to be presented at our next meeting and a brief agenda. Become familiar with the agenda, but don't start on the case yet. Is that quite enough work for you, Mrs. Frayne?"

Trixie grinned back. "Oh, more than enough, Dr. Bretling." She picked up her laptop and, giving them a sunny smile, exited to her own office.

Stephen Jensen was mightily impressed with the petite blonde from Sleepyside. "She's brilliant, Will. The best ones think visually, and what's more visual than a dream? Cyanide, indeed. Our little Trixie just handed the locals an almost guaranteed conviction."

"Which is exactly what's going to put Masse's back up in his class. She won't stand for Masse's brand of self-aggrandizement over solid work," Will lit his pipe. "I took the liberty of reading _The Werewolf Murders._ It was a big piece of sensational claptrap, and had as much to do with real police work as _Mary Poppins_ . I can see why Masse took early retirement. The actual detectives who worked the case must have made his life a living hell."

"Next step," Stephen smirked to his friend, "Is to invite Masse out here for a little conference. You, me and our newest investigator."

Will chewed on the stem of his pipe, a thoughtful expression on his gaunt face. "I agree. It may be time to call in a few markers."

**Back in Trixie's Office…**

Trixie Belden Frayne dumped her laptop and the case requests on her pristine desk and did a little jig around the room. She could _do_ this; put some clues together and solve a crime. Granted, it wasn't a terribly difficult case, but she was able to bring her life experiences into the mix and reason it out. _Like a professional._

And the motive was money. The old saying went "Money is the root of all evil" but Trixie begged to differ with it. The _love_ of money was the root of all evil. And apparently, Brenda Harper loved money a lot more than she loved Jerry.

She signed onto her desktop and began the tedious task of sorting through and replying to all the emails that the two men had graciously sent to her. Stephen had provided a sort of template as a guide, and Trixie soon found her rhythm. She mixed up the canned words with ones that reflected back to the sender's text for a more personal response.

Trixie was surprised to hear a slight knock at her door, and Anna poked her head though. "Thought you might enjoy a small break with some refreshments. You've been working hard enough."

Trixie looked at the clock on the taskbar of her computer; two hours had just flown by. Anna brought the small tray in; set on the tiny table between the two chairs in the office. "Strawberry soda, I believe," she smiled. There were also a couple of tiny finger sandwiches.

Anna also brought in a cup of tea for herself, and settled down for a nice chat with the pretty blonde woman. "How are you settling down in school?" Her gentle query was accompanied by a conspiratorial wink.

"I really like it…well most of it, anyway." Masse hung over her like a dark, threatening cloud.

"What's your most favorite class?"

"Oh, I would definitely say forensics! The professor is a peach and so entertaining. She doesn't talk down to us or make people feel small." The small _I want_ line between Trixie's brows was more pronounced with those last words.

"Well, _that_ makes me think you have a least favorite class." Anna didn't ask the question, just cleverly guided the conversation.

"Criminology 101!" Trixie snorted. "The professor there thinks he solved every crime in California. And for some reason, he's taken a real dislike to Honey – that's my best friend – and me. He actually told me that he thinks we should quit and go to what he called society colleges, like Smith or Vassar." Trixie bit into a sandwich with ferocity.

"Oh, my. He certainly doesn't sound like he should be molding young minds." Anna filed away the information. _Will and Stephen would not be pleased_.

"Gleeps no! We figure if it keeps up, we'll go see the Dean of Students. Not that we want to, we'd rather prove to him how wrong he is about us." Trixie chewed on her bottom lip. "My husband is wealthy, and Honey is his sister, the daughter of Matthew Wheeler," Trixie confided in the motherly Anna. "Professor Masse can't seem to get past the notion that they have money, and somehow I do too. He even called us rich little girls playing at being detectives."

Anna's lips thinned for a brief moment before she responded with a giggle. "Sounds like a case of T.W.S. to me," she laughed, hoping to break the melancholy mood. When Trixie looked at her in askance, she continued. "My sister, who was a psychiatrist, used to say that men overcompensate in other areas of their life when they, um, don't quite measure up to other men. You know, buying expensive sports cars, wearing shirts opened to their belly buttons with tons of gold chains, fake tans, toupees that don't fit correctly, Napoléon complexes. Teenie…"

"Weenie," Trixie laughed, her eyes lighting up and a smile curving her lips.

"Syndrome!" Anna finished, her own eyes alight with mischief.

"Oh, wait until I tell Honey. She'll just die!" Trixie watched as Anna gathered up the tray. "Thanks for the laugh."

"You're welcome, Trixie. Remember that Bastian will be here for you in," she checked her watch, "Another hour. Don't get too engrossed."

"I won't," Trixie promised, even as she moved her mouse to exit the screensaver of a bouncing deerstalker cap. "I'll be waiting."

**At Java City…**

Brian Belden simply could not believe his eyes. His tired eyes. He blinked several times and shook his head to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. He was standing in line when he noticed a honey-blonde head that was extremely familiar to him. A honey-blonde head that was turned in the direction of a very handsome dark-haired man… who wasn't _him_.

He had an early morning class, and then it was off to the hospital for some long hours there. He was still dressed in his scrubs when he decided to stop for a coffee. A shot of caffeine may keep him up long enough to get some studying in.

Their heads were close together, in an intense conversation. _His_ girlfriend, and some guy who wasn't a male relation or a mutual friend. _His_ girlfriend, who hadn't had the time to speak more than five minutes at a clip with him. Yet here she was, all the time in the world, enjoying a little tête-à-tête with a guy who was in serious danger of losing those white teeth he flashed at her.

Before the more logical part Brian of his brain could react, the primitive caveman male portion descended into overdrive, and he edged his way over to their table, stopping in front of it. Looming over it, one might say.

Honey looked up to see Brian, dressed in his blue scrubs, a paper cup of coffee fisted tightly in his right hand. _He looks tired. And angry. I wonder if something happened at the hospital._

"Honey," he said in his deep voice. Somehow that one little word came out like _what the hell is going on_?

"Hi, Brian," Honey chirped back. "Brian Belden, this is my study partner for Literature, David Yu. Dave, this is my boyfriend, Brian Belden."

David immediately stuck his hand out. "Madeleine has told me a lot about you," he said calmly. This guy looked like he was about to explode any second.

Brian grasped the hand offered without thinking, gave it a little extra hard squeeze. Hooking his foot around a chair, pulling it over and settling down as if he'd been asked to, he replied, "Really? She hasn't said _anything at all_ about you."

David was rubbing his hand under the table, surreptitiously checking for broken bones. Seeing the thunderclouds brewing in Brian's coal-black eyes, he began to gather up the books on the table and stuff them into his backpack. His parents didn't raise a stupid son. He was goin' while the goin' was good. "Nice to meet you, Brian." Flicking a glance at Honey, he gave her a gentle smile. "I'll see you in class, Madeleine."

As David brushed by him, Brian was swamped with the childish notion of sticking out his foot and watching him sprawl as inelegantly as his sister did at times. Tamping down on the urge, he turned to face his girlfriend, only to find her stuffing notes in her messenger bag. He grabbed her wrist lightly.

"Do you have anything to tell me?" he asked, in an eerily calm voice.

Honey looked down at her wrist, held gently by Brian's hand, and pulled it out of his grasp. She grabbed her bag and marched out of the store, ponytail bobbing in perfect synchronicity with her slender hips. Damn if he didn't have to stay there a minute and watch her. He was really getting pathetic.

He caught up with her a few steps from the coffee shop, stopping her by grabbing her elbow and turning her to face him. "What was that in there?" he demanded. His temper was fraying his good sense.

"Get your hand off of me, Brian Belden," Honey ground out furiously. "Before I break it."

"You have no time for _me_ but you have time enough to have coffee with that wimp? You're _my _girlfriend, Honey," he sneered. "I shouldn't have to remind you of that."

For the first time in her young life, Honey saw red. Actual red. She read about it in books, heard about it on television, but never experienced it herself. _This is what it must be like for Jim_ she thought fleetingly. Her topaz eyes darkened and a wash of vibrant rose colored her cheeks.

Poking a French-manicured finger in Brian's chest, she snarled at him. "Just who do you think you are? You don't own me. I didn't come down to the City when you have your study dates with _Brittany_." She kept poking at him. "How dare you interrupt me, or assume that I am meeting my secret lover clandestinely in a _coffee place one block from my apartment."_ She didn't add the next word: idiot.

Brian's flash of temper was deflating like yesterday's Mylar balloon. She was mouthing words at him, angry words, but he couldn't seem to hear her over the drumming of the blood in his veins. _God, she was magnificent_. Grabbing onto the finger still jabbing away, he pulled her into his arms and crashed his mouth down on hers, as his coffee slowly trickled out of the tilted cup and splashed on the sidewalk below.


	16. Tabloid Trix Chapter 15

Tabloid Trix Chapter 15

**Near the BWG apartment building…**

Paul Trent lowered his camera and smiled. The shots he just got were priceless. Honey Wheeler with another man in the coffee shop; her argument outside with her boyfriend; that sizzling kiss. _The things they'll be able to do._ He looked at the digital frames through the viewfinder, imagining the pictures they'd manufacture. Honey arguing with Brian? It could be photoshopped in an instant to show Honey arguing with Trixie, or Mart, or the President of the United States.

Hell, even that kiss could be digitally altered. He could see the headlines now: _Is Honey Cheating on Brian? _ He had those photos of Honey and Aidan walking to the deli, having a meal together. So innocent, yet they'd be able to manipulate it into a torrid affair. Or two. Or three.

He was going to make the daughters of Matthew Wheeler and Edward Lynch suffer. Suffer like he was suffering, in that run-down apartment with roaches for company and the rustle of rats in the alleyway. Di's photos with her motley crew of school friends could be the impetus for an heiress-out-of-control storyline. Drugs, sex, booze; they'd create their own modern-day sleaze-filled fairytale.

Only this one won't end up happily-ever-after.

That snoopy little blonde and her rich husband were going to suffer the worst. Jim Frayne was an extremely private person – and about to see his whole life splashed across a gossip magazine and the internet. Paul almost rubbed his hands in glee. Oh, yes, Jim Frayne would rue the day his father crossed Paul Trent. Especially when those out of control groupies fixated on him. How would his wife feel then, to see her husband pawed at by a bunch of rabid females?

And he'd do something no criminal ever succeeded with, no matter how hard they tried. He was going to make Trixie Belden Frayne a target. Jim's fans would see her as an obstacle, and she'd enjoy the same treatment as any girl who dated Justin Bieber or whoever the latest crush was. Women throwing themselves at Jim, pushing her out of the way. Sending him panties or nude pictures of themselves, graphic emails. _Those females were crazy, man. _ They'd be lucky if the marriage lasted a year.

The sun suddenly slid behind a large, dark cloud, covering the street in a charcoal shroud. The street suddenly seemed less welcoming, more dangerous; like evil lived there. A small shiver started down Paul's back, and goose bumps roughened his skin.

He was very good at pretending he didn't see this as a portent of an impending storm.

**At Trixie and Jim's…**

Jim was half-heartedly working with the book that provided sample LSAT questions. He just couldn't keep his mind on whether or not the government's stance on limiting coffee drinking by pregnant women was judicious or not. He really didn't care. It was just something to pass the time until Trixie came home from her first day at Locard.

He set his pencil down, leaned back, and rubbed his thick, red hair. Something was up with his wife, and she was being uncharacteristically closed-mouth about it. He tried all of his methods to get her to spill, but she only reiterated that she was excited to begin work.

He was sure that was a part of her exuberance, but only a part. Something put that excited sparkle in those jeweled eyes that haunted him since he was fifteen. Jim looked at the date displayed in the right hand corner of his computer, and then at the ring on his left hand. It was almost dreamlike, the feeling of finally marrying Trixie. Just a few short months ago, he was terrified he was going to lose her to that auburn-haired lothario on the third floor. _Ian. _

He closed his eyes and let his mind wander to the day he proposed in a school parking lot, of all places, and the extremely pleasurable evening that followed. His lips curved as he pictured her in those tiny scraps of material, closing his bedroom door behind her and locking it. They weren't nervous or scared; it was just so perfectly perfect and he felt so complete as they cuddled in his bed afterward. _Both_ afterwards.

"That silly little smile had better mean you are daydreaming about me," a soft voice interrupted his pleasant reminisces, as softer-still lips brushed his.

Keeping his eyes closed, Jim grinned back. "No, I was thinking about my wife."

"Oh, she's out with Billy, Bob and Ernie, the Chippendales' dancing triplets." A feather-light brush against his eyelids. "You'll just have to make do with me."

Strong arms snaked out and pulled her into his lap, and he opened his amused emerald eyes to glare into her laughing blue ones. "Stripper triplets, huh? I don't think so, Mrs. Frayne."

She grinned back at him. "You still owe me for Dot Murray, Studly. Billy, Bob and Ernie are _such _a small price to pay."

Jim groaned and buried his face in her neck. "Geez, Trix," his voice was muffled against her skin, his lips causing little tickles. "I was sixteen years old. And nothing happened!"

"Listen, Studly, we will be 94 years old and changing each other's diapers and you will _still _owe me for Dot Murray." She dramatically lifted her hand to her brow. "Oh, the adolescent angst…"

Jim rolled his eyes and went for a change of subject, instead of bringing up Ian. "How was your first day of work, baby?"

Trixie leaned into him. "It was wonderful, amazing, magic. And that was just the taxi ride with Bastian!"

"Tell me everything!" Jim demanded. She tucked her head under his chin as he stroked her soft curls, and let him know about her first day, and the sad case of Jerry and Brenda Harper. If there was the tiniest of twinges in his heart when he realized he'd always be sharing her with mayhem and murder, he said nothing. Life was certainly going to be an adventure with his Trixie, and he was only too happy to come along for the ride.

**At loading dock in New Jersey…**

Bundles of _OMG!_ magazine were thrown into waiting trucks, to be taken to the airport, dropped off at distributors and trucked to warehouses. Within the next two days, Jim's long, lean body would be prominently displayed wherever one bought reading material.

Next issue was almost ready, too. That one delved more into the Bob-Whites of the Glen. It wasn't too hard to get several juicy quotes from jealous classmates. Conjecture, sure, but it could be couched in a way that practically screamed slyly that it was truth.

The third issue would be the big one. The one that held the pretty blonde's face on the cover with the hot-pink headline, "Jim Frayne's Child Bride." They had some pretty good photos of the wedding, too, courtesy of a telephoto lens and the cover the trees at Ten Acres provided.

The harvest moon rose over the eastern seaboard, crimson staining its normally pearly surface. Only a few raised their heads to shiver at the blood on the moon, and wonder if something wicked was coming their way.

**At Aidan's & Kaitlin's…**

Aidan was comfortably sprawled over the recliner, his long legs hanging off the side and his laptop on his, well, lap, as he tapped his homework out. His sister, looking considerably brighter than she had in the past few days, was stealing glances at him as she pretended to read. She'd never make a good detective. The book was upside down.

He tapped out the last part of the equation, entered and saved. A second later, the completed document was headed to his professor. Snapping the lid down, he waited patiently for his sister to begin the interrogation he knew was coming. He didn't have long to wait.

"How was your coffee date, Ace?" Kaitlin gave up all pretense of reading. It was way more fun digging into her brother's social life.

"It was okay." Aidan stroked long fingers across the smoothness of the laptop. "Are you seeing Christian again?" Turnabout was fair play.

Kait rolled her eyes. "Not unless I need a coma induced for medical reasons," she snickered. "Are you seeing Ms. Coffee Date again?"

"Her name is Lenore. And I don't think so," he smiled.

Kaitlin widened her eyes. "Lenore? As in_, __From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. _Like Poe's Lenore?"

Aidan dropped his head into his hands. "She's from Baltimore. The whole time we were together I had to hear how her parents named her after Poe's poem, blah blah blah and listen to her recite the whole of _Lenore_and _The Raven_." He grunted. "The woman has a serious crush on a dead poet."

Kaitlin tried to keep her composure. She really did. But a picture of her brother as a desperate, captive audience to a woman spouting off Poe in the middle of a student hang-out was just too much. Bright laughter bubbled up and out, and before long her brother joined in the hilarity.

"It wasn't funny, Kait," he laughed. "There she was, dressed in black carrying a tote from Barnes& Noble's with Edgar's portrait right on front. She…she told me she has a pet raven at home. I bet you can't guess his name."

"Don't tell me," she giggled, wiping tears from her cheeks. "Edgar."

"Nope. _Vincent Price_." That started another round of hysterical laughter from the two. "I mean, she looked _normal_ in class."

"Geez, Aidan. Only you could get involved with a goth girl in love with a dead poet and a pet raven named after an old-time movie star." She had to hold a hand to her aching side. "M…maybe we should introduce Christian to Lenore. He…he can tell her about the hem in Vincent Price's pants in _The Raven _and she can recite the whole thing as foreplay." They both dissolved into whoops of laughter.

"It looks like neither of us lucked out in our first dip into the dating pool," Aidan observed with a rueful smile, scrubbing a hand across his aching chest. He hadn't laughed like that in the longest time.

Kaitlin took a deep breath. She knew she'd have to tell him about Dan. And she knew how Aidan's mind would connect the dots. Dan…Kaitlin. Dan…Elle. Dan…back to Kaitlin. He'd try to substitute his name, Trixie's name and Jim's name in a similar fashion. But Aidan had never been anything more than a friend to Trixie. Why couldn't he see that?

"Dan came by today," she began, and was immediately interrupted.

He couldn't help the shouted "What?" He liked Dan. He did. But he didn't like the look of devastation in Kaitlin's eyes, or her desperate attempt at dating. He laid that at Dan's doorstep.

Ignoring her brother's outburst, Kaitlin continued. "Ummm, we had a discussion. Quite an interesting discussion," she admitted.

"About?" Aidan was gritting his teeth.

"About us. Not _us,_" she waved her hand between them. "Dan. And me." When Aidan didn't respond, she gamely went on. "We kind of decided that we'd rather be exploring our relationship some more. Exclusively." She bit her lip, waiting for the explosion.

He wanted to hold on to his anger, but looking into his sister's eyes, with happiness and trepidation warring for supremacy, he had to let it go. "I'm happy for you, Kait, if that's what you want."

She breathed out, unaware that she had been holding her breath. A joyous smile lit her beautiful face. "Thanks, Aidan. We're…we're going to take things slowly." She gave him a lascivious wink. "And I may be dating Dan, but I ain't dead."

He had to laugh. "O-kay, Kaitlin. But if he hurts you again, I may have to go round with him," he warned her.

"If he hurts me again, Ace, I'll be right there with you."

**In Brian's bedroom…**

Brian Belden leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window and gazed up at the harvest moon, a big blood orange hanging there in the night sky. How many times had he stood at his window at the Farm, seeing the same September moon? Now he was in the City, a college man, not so very much changed from that somber boy at the Farm. And the harvest moon remained the same, too.

He should be studying. He glanced over at his open book on his desk, turned back to his scrutiny of the moon. He was damn tired of studying all the time. Damn tired of being the responsible one. Damn tired of being Brian Belden. Where was all this getting him? He could barely remember what it was like to be energetic and…and _happy_.

He winced at the thought of his actions at Java City. And the scene outside with Honey. Gosh, Moms and Dad would be so disappointed in him. Honey obviously was. He was sure Trixie, Mart and Bobby would think he was off his rocker. He was so tired though, and when he saw Honey with that guy, well, his good sense just drowned under a tsunami of jealousy.

He was losing her. His beautiful, serene Honey had laced into him with a maleficent fury. Her topaz eyes glittered and her cheeks carried that same flush they had after lovemaking. He _had_ to kiss her, to taste that mouth again, to feel the press of her long, lithe body against his. He ravished her mouth, right out there in the street. He could feel her go limp in his arms for a few seconds, until she pushed him away.

"_That_ won't solve anything, Brian," she said softly, and with conviction. Those words arrowed through him so much more effectively than all their shouting. "We're so much more than that."

She turned and walked away, leaving him on the sidewalk staring after her, empty coffee cup in hand, and puddle at his feet.

_We're so much more than that._ Than what? An angry kiss on the street? If he could decipher the meaning of those few words, he'd have the key to Honey's discontent. God, he was so good at book-learning, but clueless about women. Well, his woman, to be exact. They'd been happy in their relationship the past couple of years. It all started changing when Jim proposed to Trixie.

_Something changed then._ As he stared up at the moon, he knew he found a piece of the puzzle. He'd talk to Jim. It would be uncomfortable for both of them, he imagined, but he needed to put this right. Looking at the open book on the desk, he walked over and closed it. Studying wasn't everything, he decided. Nope. Some things were even more important than a perfect score.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

Livvy Dufresne couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She was almost always aware of her surroundings; a single woman in a big city, even one as safe as Montréal. But she could not shake that little frisson that snaked its way up her spine every now and then. She could almost _feel_ the burning eyes upon her. At school, at home, and now doing her meager marketing for the week.

She glanced around the small greengrocer, shrugged her shoulders. No one was paying any particular attention to her; she did not recognize any of the other customers in the store as being near her at any other time.

Still, she could not dismiss the eerie sensation that she was being observed, like…like a hunter would stalk its prey. Her cell phone shrilled out, and its loud, cheery tune startled her into dropping her purse and spilling some of the contents. She quickly picked it up and answered rather breathlessly, "Hello?"

"Livvy? It's Jordan Jonsson. We met at the coffee shop, if you recall?" He was sitting in his little black nondescript Honda, right across the street from the store. Oh, she would remember the understated wealth of Jordan Jonsson. _He would bet his life on it_.

"Jordan! Of course I remember!" A large smile wreathed her face, and that uncomfortable feeling suddenly vanished into nothingness. "How are you?" _Thank you, God._

"I hope I'm not calling at an inconvenient time," he said smoothly, almost giggling as he watched her through the plate glass window, hurriedly stuffing the spilled contents of her purse back inside of it.

"Oh, not at all," she lied. "I'm glad you called." Was it really so terrible to let a handsome and charming man know you were…interested?

"I've been tied up lately, unfortunately, or I would have called earlier. Would you like to go to the movies with me tomorrow? There's a little art-house cinema I discovered. They play mostly black and white films from the thirties and forties. I'm an old film buff," he confessed, with charming self-deprecation in his deep voice.

Livvy knew next to nothing about old films. She truly was a modern woman, had no patience with the rather talky films of the past. "Oh, I love old movies!" she found herself saying. As they set the time and place for them to meet, she resolved to do an internet search tonight and take a crash course in old movies.

If that was his worst vice, she thought to herself, she could live with that.

**At Professor Masse's apartment…**

Luke Masse linked his fingers together and stared out at the big, crimson moon in the sky. His conscience was bothering him just that little bit, ever since he received the second response to his email from Dr. Brietling of the Locard Society.

The brief summons set a meeting up Wednesday next at Locard, right before the scheduled bi-monthly meeting of the entire membership on Thursday. He couldn't help the hope that refused to be quashed: maybe they'd invite him to observe the meeting. That would certainly set him up for some networking with the cognoscenti of worldwide law enforcement. He needed it.

He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. _Just how far was he willing to go to get himself ahead?_ He _could_ have asked Trixie Frayne about the pin she wore, instead of running to Locard. Instead, he let his own dislike of the woman color his judgment. Just like back in LA, when dumb luck resulted in his capture of the werewolf murderer.

He was the toast of the town for a while, and developed a severe crush on being the celebrated cop who brought the madman down. He'd even had to hire an agent to handle the hundreds of requests for congratulatory interviews on all the hottest television and radio programs – even overseas!

_And he let it go to his head_. No longer was he the low man on the totem pole, given all the crappy homicide cases none of the other detectives wanted to touch. Instead of giving credit where credit was due, shyly admitting it was luck and reflecting back on the solid police work of the task force, he took _all_ the credit.

When his agent approached him about the book deal, he jumped at the chance to prolong his 15 minutes of fame. A suitable ghostwriter was surreptitiously hired, and _The Werewolf Murders_ became an international best seller, further antagonizing his co-workers.

The offer to teach at John Jay came at a very opportune moment, and he jumped at it. His welcome in LA was waning as newer crimes diverted the attention of the media, and, truth to tell, he made an ass of himself in a lot of the later interviews. There were no offers to analyze crimes on any of the national talk shows or crime-centered shows. The guys at work hated him.

Masse thought back about his years at the college. He was so ignorant! He knew nothing about the war cry of academia everywhere: _Publish or Perish!_ He hadn't really published anything of note since the book, and even that was not his words. The Chair of the department was wondering about him, had asked several pointed questions lately.

He leaned his hot face against the glass. If he was going to be totally, brutally honest for once, in the privacy of his own home, he might as well admit that Trixie Frayne and Madeleine Wheeler were among the most gifted students he ever had. While their little truce was in effect, he was surprised at the depth and understanding of the criminal justice system – and criminals – that both women possessed. Was he so small that he let his own feelings about females in law enforcement spill over into the classroom?

He spread his palm against the cool glass. The house of cards upon which he built his present life was teetering on the brink of collapse, and his instinct to shield himself took over.

If it came down to Trixie and Madeleine, or himself, he'd have no problem throwing them under the nearest bus.


	17. Tabloid Trix Chapter 16

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story and put it on alert! I really do appreciate your thoughtful comments, and I will catch up someday!

Tabloid Trix Chapter 16

The day so far had been curious, and it kept getting curiouser and curiouser, to borrow a phrase. A gaggle of co-eds in the commons stopped and pointed to him, giggling all the while. He felt their eyes on him as he walked to class, his long legs eating up the sidewalk. Jim glanced down, half-afraid he walked out in his flannel pajama pants or forgot to zip up. Life with his sexy, adventurous Trixie could addle a man's brains sometimes. He smiled to himself. More than sometimes. But no, his green gaze informed him that his zipper was in its proper place on his jeans, and his flannel jammies were safely at home.

Shrugging his shoulders, he continued on to class. _Maybe they thought I was Conan O'Brien or something._ The curse of red hair, he thought, rather sarcastically. It always set him apart, no matter how much he tried to fade into the background. At least in Sleepyside, no one looked at redheads any differently than anyone else. There were just too many of them there.

Almost all the seats were taken by the time he walked into the classroom, and he was greeted by a terrific cacophony of voices. All of which went silent as soon as he walked into the room and took one of the few empty seats. The buzz started again, at a lower pitch this time, and he was treated to the out-and-out stares of quite a few of the other students, and furtive glances from others. Even his professor gave him a rather strange look.

It went that way for most of the day. People pointing him out; even taking pictures of him with their cell phones. Jim could feel the temper stirring in him. What the hell was going on? He didn't have the slightest clue. All he knew was that _he _seemed to be the hot topic of the day.

Mike Seaver came running up to him, punched him lightly in the arm. "You never even told me!" he said, with a fake hurt voice. "And I thought we were friends!" He put a hand to his heart and pressed, sighing dramatically for effect. Whatever information he could glean from the enigmatic Jim Frayne would again make him the darling of the dorms. _And he loved being popular_.

Jim rubbed a hand over his arm where Mike's punch landed. Not that the punch hurt one bit, but it gave his restless hand something to do. "Told you what?" he asked of Mike, confused. Did he fall down the rabbit hole or something today? The same hand ran through his thick red hair in frustration.

"Told me _everything_," Mike almost shouted in glee. "Geez, Frayne, you're great at secrets. A secret girlfriend. A secret wedding. You should've gone to work for the CIA. Hell, maybe you should just _buy_ the CIA."

Jim stopped short, whirled around to Mike. "What the _hell_ are you talking about? There was nothing secret about Trixie and me. _Buy_ the CIA? Are you nuts? What's with everyone today? Why do people keep pointing me out and taking my picture with their phones?" A furious flush was heating up Jim's high cheekbones, and his emerald eyes were stormy with temper.

Mike Seaver took one look at the icy green eyes and swallowed audibly. It was becoming rapidly obvious that Jim Frayne really _did_ have a temper to match that flaming hair of his. One that he most certainly kept a lid on, but it seemed _that_ pressure cooker was about to explode. "You. Being mega-rich. Hell, Jim, you could be buying your own island with a bunch of hot babes to feed you grapes and take care of every little last wish you might have," Mike sputtered out. He still could not decipher why James Winthrop Frayne II would marry at such a young age, even someone as obviously sexy and pretty as Trixie. Hell, with Jim's dough he could be living the high life with hotties on each arm, spending winters in the Caribbean and summers just about anywhere else.

Jim's eyes narrowed into tiny, green slits and his full lips compressed into a very thin line. "Where did you hear that? So help me Mike, if you've been gossiping again…" Jim deliberately played down his status, both as Matt Wheeler's adopted son and as the heir to the Frayne fortune. In reality, _his_ reality, he was just a farm boy from upstate, not some society prize. Although he now felt comfortable moving between the two worlds, there was a time not so long ago that he was rather overwhelmed by it all.

Mike actually took a step back. "Hold on," he said, as he scrambled for the magazine in his backpack. "You don't know about this?" He thrust the magazine into Jim's hand, keeping a wary eye on the other one, which was tightly fisted and ready to spring into action.

Jim glanced down at the magazine, and for a moment, the whole world tilted as he gazed with disbelieving eyes at his own picture on the cover of something called _OMG!_ He stared at Mike in blank shock, almost forgetting to breathe.

"You _didn't_ know about this," Mike said roughly, seeing the color drain out of his friend's face. It dawned on him then: Jim just wanted to be treated like a regular guy, not like some ditzy celebrity offspring of a wealthy man.

Jim didn't reply, just looked down again at the magazine in his hand. It was obviously some sort of gossip rag; his picture was flanked by a couple of smaller pictures of what were the perpetrators of the latest celebrity scandals, courtesy of the Hollywood lifestyle. With shaking fingers he flipped through the colorful pages until he reached the section that had even more pictures. _Of him._

_Of his sister._

_Of one of their best female friends. _

And their lives were laid bare on the pages of this magazine, along with nasty, hurtful little quotes from unnamed sources. His own story of being abused by Jonesy, Honey's difficult time prior to coming to Sleepyside, Diana's horror at being thrust into the world of moneyed society. There was even a mention of the Beldens and Dan Mangan, and a blurry little picture of all seven of them when they were much younger.

And the absolutely bone-chilling words, _To Be Continued Next Week._

He let fly with a coarse swear word, one he rarely said. He crumpled the magazine in one fist, his eyes dark and dangerous. He saw the byline on the article, right under the last, disgusting line.

_Paul Trent._

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

The Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal had a number of missing person reports at any one time. Some were runaway kids escaping to what they thought was a better life; others runaway adults escaping an abusive marriage, crushing debt, or simply a wish to start an unencumbered new life.

Most of them were resolved rather quickly. Kids returned home, finding life on the streets was not exactly comfortable. Adults were found and either returned home, chastened, or were set free by their spouses or significant others to pursue whatever it was they were looking for.

And then there were the more troublesome reports. A small child disappearing in the park or in a store. A teenager, hooked on drugs, disappearing into the life. They almost always ended in tragedy.

_The women._ The ones that brought acid burn to the stomachs of the missing person squad. A pretty little wife and mother, missing. Not reported by her husband, but by another concerned friend or relative. Almost invariably, the husband was the perp. Responsible young women, the types that attend school, have jobs and friends, maybe even a boyfriend. Almost always described as nice, upbeat friendly girls, with killer smiles and a trusting nature. And they just disappear into thin air, only to be found as another murder statistic.

Jean-Paul Loriot was staring at three reports that just crossed his desk. _Three_. All women. Young, pretty. Two were students from different schools; the third was a tourist, there with her parents. The number kept running through Jean-Paul's head. _Three_.

All of them described as "good" girls; responsible, studious, happy with life. Looking forward to their bright futures. Building something for themselves. But that, Jean-Paul cautioned himself, was just the surface. So many times his squad had scratched below the shiny surface to find ugly things. Ugly truths that had to be revealed to shocked parents or friends and lovers, who then turned around and blamed the gendarme for ferreting out secrets that should have been left alone.

Looking at the fresh faces smiling out at him from the three files, Jean-Paul sighed heavily. Something felt…hinky. They'd have to dig, to see if any of these women knew the other, see if their lives crossed at any point. He stood and walked over to the small window in his office. It just didn't _feel_ right.

Three women. All rather petite. All Caucasian. Not the type to engage in risky behavior. All vanishing within a few days of each other from different parts of town. Jean-Paul raised his arm above his head, leaned it on the window, weary, as he pressed his forehead into the glass.

He looked out at his beloved city, and prayed to God that he didn't have a serial killer on the loose.

**On various Bob-White cellphones across Manhattan…**

The text message was short. All it said was _Bob, Bob-White. Meet at Honey's and Di's ASAP_.

On his way home, Jim passed another newsstand. It almost seemed like there was one at every other corner, all of them with multiple images of his face staring back at him. Gritting his teeth, he stopped to buy a few copies, and gave a murderous look to the unlucky vendor who asked him to autograph a few copies.

**Back in Sleepyside…**

Matthew Wheeler came roaring into the family room where Maddie was engaged in a lively debate with her decorator over whether she wanted plantation shutters or fabric shades. She was leaning more towards the shutters as she felt they were more in tune with the history of the Manor House. As she looked into her husband's furiously red face, eyes shooting out green sparks, she dumped the call with Carlos without a qualm.

"Mr. Lytell overcharge you for coffee again?" she asked with dry wit. They might be in the upper, rarefied regions of personal wealth, but nothing made Matt angrier than Lytell trying to charge him five cents more for a cup of that lousy coffee he sold.

"Look at this Maddie, look at this," he shouted, waving a rather crumpled up magazine at her. She removed it from his hand and smoothed out the cover, her eyes widening at the rather sexy shot of…their _son_.

"Wha…what is this, Matthew?" she whispered, her topaz eyes anguished. She flipped through the pages, only to be ambushed not just by additional pictures of Jim, but of their daughter, Di Lynch and in fact, the rest of the Bob-Whites.

Matt slammed a fist down on the elegant desk. "Did you see the byline?" he spat out. "_Paul Trent,_" his voice indicating his contempt for the man. "I thought we were well rid of him when they fired him from _The Sun._"

Maddie had been skimming over the articles, her frown growing deeper and deeper, her gentle eyes sparkling with frustrated tears. "Did you see what they said about the girls and Jim? Oh, Honey is going to be devastated." Her lovely face was flushed with anger. "We moved out of the city because we didn't want Honey to be a target, and now that…that bastard has made them _all_ targets."

"I could kill him for this," Matt ground out as he paced the room. "Call Peter and Helen and I'll get in touch with Ed and Sharon and give Regan a heads up. Tell them to meet us here as soon as they can get here. We're going to need a strategy to combat this claptrap."

Matt moved over to the big bay window, looking out over the tranquil grounds of the house that was once empty and forlorn, and now was filled with laughter, light and love. Honey had been ill when they moved here, ill and a possible target for kidnappers. It was a blessing moving here to Sleepyside. Not only had Honey regained her health, but a stronger bond was forged between the three and more happiness arrived in the guise of a fifteen year old orphaned boy. All brought about by his son's wife, a woman he and Maddie loved as well as a daughter.

There were crazy people back then, and even crazier people now. His daughter, son, his son's wife and their friends now had big bull's-eyes painted on their backs, courtesy of that so-called writer. Not only would they become the targets of the criminal element and the social climbers, but now they'd have to worry about the paparazzi shadowing their every move.

The problem was, he pondered as he dialed his cell phone, what the parents could do about it. He just hoped the kids were not aware of the mess yet and had another day or two of peace. Somehow, he doubted it.

**At Paul Trent's apartment…**

He sat on the windowsill facing the alley, smoking another cigarette and grinning maniacally at the cover of _OMG!_ he clutched in his other hand. He walked around the City today, watching as the newsstands hung the copies of the magazine right up front. The vendors were no dummies; they knew Jim's hot body would sell.

And sell, it did. Giggling schoolgirls in their uniforms, plaid skirts rolled up until they got into school and assumed a more modest image. Power-suited women, with their briefcases and Coach bags and ubiquitous sneakers. Moms out in designer jeans and itty-bitty tank tops, pushing the latest in jogging strollers while chatting non-stop on their cell phones. Even the hookers stopped for a surreptitious glance.

_They had a winner_.

Hell, he'd never get that Pulitzer Prize he dreamt of, never be Woodward or Bernstein, never write for his holy grail, _The New York Times._

But he could do something else. He could be Walter Winchell, or Hedda Hopper or Louella Parsons. He could bring back the power and the glory of the old gossip columnists in the 30's, 40's and 50's, when they wielded such power even the movie studio bosses were afraid of them. One bad word from good ol' Walt, Hedda or Louella and man, your career was toast. You had to treat them with _respect_, no matter how big a movie star you were. Kowtow, as it were.

He could imagine that. After all, this was the United States, home of free speech. After he was through with the Sleepyside contingent; leaving them battered and breathless, their lives in shambles, he could certainly imagine other industry leaders providing many, many perks to the reporter who kept their secrets. It wasn't _quite_ blackmail, just skirting the line.

He tossed the cigarette butt out the window, and the magazine on the dirty, patched rug on the floor. He'd use the magazine as his stepping stone, and the Bob-Whites as his hiking boots. He visualized the future, when the hot pink header would read: Paul Trent's _OMG!_

And the television show wouldn't be too bad, either.

**In a fancy store in Manhattan…**

The saleswoman was absolutely thrilled with her sale. She drew the short straw when she and the other consultants saw the rather rumpled, curly-haired blonde saunter through the door. The woman was beautiful in that sort of back-to-nature way that was the complete opposite of the overly made-up, hard look most of the consultants sported.

Of course, what the snooty consultants did not realize is that all male eyes turned to the sunny blonde when she crept into the store. Had they been able to tune into each man's thoughts, to a woman they would have rushed to the ladies' room, fought for a sink and washed off all the gunk on their faces.

Lili glided over to the blonde, ready with a "Can I help you?" to be uttered in bored, upper-class tones. Larchmont lockjaw, they called it, and it really was an effective weapon for getting…undesirables out of the store.

Until the blonde, who had the bluest eyes Lili had ever seen, raised a hand to run it through those magnificent, untamed curls. Her left hand. With a real rock on it. Surrounded by more real rocks. "Yes, yes you may," the blonde said to her, with a ravishing smile. "I want to knock my husband's socks off."

Lili smiled back. "Well, I believe I can help you with that!" The petite blonde was poked and prodded and measured and re-measured. The private dressing room filled with this and that and yeses and nos and maybes. In the end, the blonde stood there quietly and handed over her black American Express card.

_Black._

Lili looked at the name before she ran it through, as the counter girls packed everything carefully in paper. Trixie Frayne. _Frayne._

As she handed the card back, she remarked to the girl, "Frayne. That's an unusual name. Are you any relation to Jim Frayne?"

Trixie's eyes widened and for a moment her brain shut down. "J-Jim Frayne?" she stuttered back, all the while wondering how Jim could possibly know a snooty saleslady in an upscale lingerie store.

"Yeah, the hunk on the cover of _OMG!" _ At Trixie's blank look, she pulled out a copy from under the desk. "Him. Jim Frayne."

As she looked at her oh-so-sexy husband of a few months in all his workingman glory on the cover of some stupid gossip magazine, her phone trilled out the tone that signified an incoming message.

**Coming out of the subway at 5****th**** Ave. and Central Park…**

Brian Belden stood, chocolate brown eyes wide and staring in awe, looking at multiple pictures of his best friend on the cover of something called _OMG!_ at the same time his cell phone chirped out an incoming message.

**At the girls' apartment…**

Both Honey and Di glanced down at their cell phones, and back up at each other. The same question was on the tip of their tongues. Why was Jim using the Bob-White call and why did he want everyone to meet at their apartment?

There was a peremptory knock on the door, and Honey bit her lip as she walked slowly over to answer it. She really didn't want to answer. She just had a feeling she was inviting something unsettling in, and the longer it took her to open the door, the longer she could keep it out.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada**

Livvy Dusfresne was in serious lust. She was a fairly cautious woman, and would not characterize her infatuation with Jordan Jonsson as love. At least not yet. However, it certainly could be very, very easy to slip and slide in that direction.

They met at that little art house theatre, charmingly called The Lyceum. It had a real, old fashioned marquee outside, with big, black letters proclaiming the latest double feature. This week, it was paying homage to the genre of screwball comedies. The letters proclaimed The King, Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert in _It Happened One Night. _Rounding out the bill was Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn in _Bringing Up Baby._ There was an actual ticket booth on the outside, staffed with by a woman with rolled hair, the reddest lipstick Livvy ever saw, and a snappy uniform that just screamed the 40's.

Inside, their tickets were taken by usher in full regalia, and Jordan gravely received the stubs that were proof they paid. The snack area had real popcorn and real butter to drench it with. Livvy confessed to Jordan that she really didn't know all that much about old movies, and he laughed it off.

"I'll be happy to…further your education," he murmured. He protested delightfully when she tried to pay for her drink and snack. They were escorted into the darkened theatre by another usher with a flashlight, into a real old fashioned theatre with one large screen; an actual stage with an upright piano in one corner of it; and a large balcony overhanging the last few rows of seats.

The show started off with an old newsreel, and proceeded to unwind the funny and romantic comedy of Clark and Colbert. An old black and white Disney cartoon followed, and a slight intermission. She excused herself to go to the ladies' room. As she washed her hands over the sink, she saw the shiny eyes and pink flush that made her face so charmingly pretty.

By the time the second cartoon was over, they were lightly holding hands. She giggled and laughed through _Bringing Up Baby_ and he further charmed her by whispering little facts about the movie, the director and its dreamy stars. She didn't imagine that he didn't want their enchanted evening to end; he suggested a cup of coffee at a nearby café.

In the cold light of day, Livvy admitted to herself that had he pressed, she would have invited him back into her house and right into her bed. No regrets. But he wouldn't let her take the bus home, insisted upon driving her himself in his surprising choice of a vehicle: a blue, soccer-mom minivan.

Jordan assisted her into the vehicle, his strong arm helping her up. Livvy provided dreamy directions to her house, falling more and more under the spell of the gentlemanly, erudite and funny Jordan Jonsson.

Jordan walked to her door, a slow, romantic walk with loosely laced fingers and a comfortable hush. Standing at her door, still holding her hands, he leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss on her cheek, although the vein pulsing in his temple gave away his true desire.

"I had a wonderful time," she whispered, unwilling to break the enchanted mood.

"As did I," he replied, equally as quiet. "How about a moonlight picnic day after tomorrow? No ants, but lots of moonlight on the river, and some good company I hope." He looked at her just like a little boy would; wide, puppy dog eyes with an eager hope in them.

Of course she said yes.

She watched him drive away from her doorway, turned and sighed.

Jordan Jonsson stopped a few blocks away, removing the blue contact lenses that were becoming irritating. His face seemed to morph from the kind and gentle expression of Jordan Jonsson to the hard, cold mask that was Hunter Lavigne.

This one seemed like a pretty good match. He hoped Becky thought so. His thoughts turned to his sacred, secret place on the island across from his house, and he felt the urges start again. They were getting more difficult to restrain, more difficult to hide from Becky.

Livvy Dufresne went to bed that night dreaming of the fictitious Jordan Jonsson.

Hunter Lavigne went to bed dreaming of the days, hours, minutes and seconds that were ticking off the time Livvy Dufresne had left on this world.

A/N: Many thanks to my lovely and talented editors, Mylee and Grandma Cindy.

_Conan O'Brien_ is a very funny, sarcastic talk show host with bright red hair.

_The Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal_ is the name of the police in Montreal, but Jean-Paul Loriot is my own creation.

_The New York Times_ is a daily newspaper noted for its investigative journalism.

_Walter Winchell, Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper_ were gossip columnists who really did wield enormous powers over stars' careers in the golden days of Hollywood. They could make you or break you!

_Claudette Colbert, Clark Gable, Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn_ were enormous stars also during the golden years of Hollywood. And they made good films too!


	18. Tabloid Trix Chapter 17

Tabloid Trix Chapter 17

Aidan McCourt _should_ have been studying in the computer lab at school. And indeed, one portion of his brain _was_ playing with the programming language. The other portion, the resourceful if stubborn part, was playing out his dearest fantasy in full, living color.

His vivid imagination conjured up any number of fantasies involving him, Trixie, and a hapless Jim who either nobly stepped aside to allow Trixie and Aidan to find a happily-ever-after _after_ realizing Aidan loved her better; a Jim who suddenly concluded he wanted to be a drag queen and left Trixie for the fabled clubs in Greenwich Village; or, his current fave, the one where Jim Frayne tells his tearful bride that he decided to become a celibate monk in Tibet, leaving a brokenhearted Trixie to pick up the pieces of her life. And Aidan would be there, helping her, consoling her and cajoling her. He could even visualize their wedding, and the family they would create together. Jim would come back from Tibet after a number of years, realizing what he lost, and would be confronted by the happily married Trixie and Aidan _McCourt_ and their three absolutely gorgeous children. It was immensely gratifying.

And there was always the kidnapped by aliens one. That was also rather satisfying.

He propped his head on his hand as he stared at the algorithms on the screen, and sighed. What was a man to do when he found _his_ soul-mate, but she belonged to another…in fact, _her_ soul-mate? Sure, he'd try to date again, maybe even bed some women. He might even find one that he liked a lot.

The lyrics from that old Meat Loaf song kept running through his head.

_I want you (I want you)_

_I need you (I need you)_

_But there ain't no way I'm ever gonna love you._

_Now don't be sad (Don't be sad)_

'_Cause two outta three ain't bad._

He had a sneaking suspicion, that at eighteen going on nineteen, all he'd be able to offer a woman, now or in the future, is two outta three. And it _was_ bad.

Aidan sat there, his grey-green eyes reflecting the resignation within him. The only thing he could offer Trixie now was his friendship. He knew that, knew it would never, ever be anything more, at least on her side. It was obvious, even to him, that Jim Frayne was completely and irrevocably in love with his wife.

Unless Jim _was _suddenly kidnapped by aliens. Hey, it could happen.

So, he huffed out, he'd join the ranks of the Bob-Whites of the Glen, who orbited her like the planets orbited the sun, basking in her golden warmth, caught in her mysterious gravitational pull.

He could only hope that he didn't crash and burn.

**At the girls' apartment…**

Honey opened the door and invited Dan and Mart in, both wearing equally grim expressions. As they followed her into the living room, Mart spoke up.

"Do you know why Jim sent that text message?" Mart was praying it had nothing to do with Trixie. His almost-twin, married or not, was the one person he always worried about. Although she might not be looking for trouble, trouble had a way of finding her, even in a tiny, sleepy village upstate. Heaven knows what she could be up to in New York City.

"I don't even know why he insisted on meeting _here_," Honey replied in an aggrieved tone. "You guys know as much as we do."

Mart stopped for a second, his eyes drinking in the sight of his lovely girlfriend – at least, he thought she was still his girlfriend – sitting on the couch with one leg tucked under her butt, chewing nervously on her lower lip. She glanced up into his china blue eyes, so like Trixie's, and he saw the worry in her startling amethyst ones.

Settling down next to her, hoping she wouldn't get up and walk away, he patted her knee. Di laid her slender hand atop his much larger one, and voiced the thought that had consumed all of them since getting the message.

"I just hope Trixie is all right," she said in a low, worried voice.

Dan settled himself on one of the comfortable recliners and began stroking the worn leather with one long finger. "Listen, you guys, if anything happened to Trixie, I'm sure we would have gotten a flurry of cell phone calls and not a text from Jim." He really, really wanted to believe that.

"Dan's right," Honey agreed. "Jim would at least have called me if anything…if anything was really wrong." She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. She laced her fingers together, rubbing at her knuckles.

The quartet sat silently in the living room, hesitating to give voice to their most private worries, and waiting impatiently for the missing members to arrive.

**At the Manor House…**

Celia Delanoy wheeled in the serving cart. On it was the sterling silver coffee/tea set, some rather sturdy mugs instead of the delicate china cups one might expect, and a selection of petit pastries and delicious finger sandwiches Cook magically whipped up at a moment's notice. She set the delicacies and beverages on the sideboard, and looked at the grim faces in the room. Whatever was going on, the Wheelers, Lynches and Beldens were not happy campers. And Regan looked like a redheaded thundercloud.

"That will be all Celia, thank you." With her inbred graciousness, Maddie Wheeler dismissed the maid, but Celia heard the strain in her voice. Piled on the dining room table were several copies of a magazine, but Celia could not see what magazine. As she shut the heavy double doors behind her, she had to smile at herself. She was becoming as snoopy as Trixie!

"I should have never let them all go off to college," Matt Wheeler ranted the minute the doors clicked shut, as he paced the length of the table. "Coffee?" he snorted. "I need a real drink."

Helen Belden stared at the rather um…sexy image of her son-in-law gracing the cover of a gossip magazine. Biting her lower lip, and resembling an older, more sedate Trixie, she decided to make a joke. A very small joke, to be sure, but both Matt and Peter looked like they were about to call a posse to saddle up and hang that bastard, Paul Trent.

"Well, at least Jim looks good," she offered up. The pictures they had of the children in the despicable rag were rather beautiful. The only one that was slightly blurred was the one of the seven of them, in their Bob-White jackets, when they were much younger. And Helen suspected that was purposeful. _To Be Continued Next Issue…_

"I'm not sure why Trent suddenly decided to make our kids' lives fodder for these so-called magazines," Ed Lynch looked around the table. "He couldn't stand them when he wrote for _The Sun._ Especially Trixie," he added helpfully, only to find Sharon's sharp elbow in his side.

Bill Regan poured himself a mug of hot, black coffee and strode over to the window, looking out across the vast expanse of lawn, toward his stables. His employers and their best friends were present in this room, and he felt ready to explode in the most foul-mouthed rant his Irish temper could devise. Taking a large sip and ignoring the scalding sensation in his mouth, he ground out, his voice tense and low, "I don't know why Trent had to bring all that history up about Dan. The boy has been a model citizen here in Sleepyside. This is going to kill him. I thought we were past all that gang nonsense."

"I wonder if the kids know." Peter Belden rubbed at his mustache. "I'm sure they may have seen it; there's practically a newsstand at every corner and subway stop in the City."

"Why now? Why the Bob-Whites? What could possibly make Paul Trent so narrow-minded and vengeful?" Maddie was asking as she scrubbed slender, shaking hands over her face. "Honey, Diana and Jim are just going to be so hurt about all the comments in there." As she spoke, the doors opened and Melinda Bancroft strode in, a crumpled magazine in her hand, and a shocked Celia trailing after her.

"I can answer that," she said in a tight voice.

"She just barged in, Mr. Wheeler," Celia began to explain. Matt smiled at the obviously rattled Celia.

"It's all right, Celia. Just close the door when you leave."

_And here's your hat,_ Celia thought sarcastically. She gave one more hard look at Melinda Bancroft before she closed the doors with a louder than normal click.

Matt Wheeler leaned negligently against the sideboard. A proud, successful man, having a relaxing evening with his friends. Until you looked into his eyes. They were icy green, deadly and promised an exacting retribution.

"You said you know Trent's motivation for this piece of dreck. Let's hear it, Melinda." His voice was cool, with an underlying hint of leashed temper.

Melinda Bancroft looked nothing like the cool and calm, empowered woman who dismissed Paul Trent with the flick of her Cross pen. Her usually sleek hair was mussed as if she had been running a restless hand through it; her face was flushed and her suit a tad wrinkled. She pressed a sweaty palm against her burning cheek as six pairs of eyes turned to her with an expectant light in every single pair.

"It's because of me," she stated baldly. "It's my fault."

"Melinda, unless you are secretly publishing this excuse for a magazine, I fail to see how any of this is your fault," Peter said evenly. "Besides, I thought you fired Trent a long while back."

Melinda sank down into the nearest chair, afraid her legs would not support her. "I did." She sighed heavily. Looking first at Matt Wheeler, and then into Ed Lynch's gentle brown eyes, she started at the beginning.

"Trent was one of my better reporters, believe it or not." One lip curled up. "He, I don't know, he wanted to be an investigative journalist, bringing down the corrupt and elevating the respectable. Somewhere along the line, it all got twisted up inside of him. _The Sun_ was too small-town, too tame. He wanted _The New York Times _or_ The Washington Post_." Melinda laced her fingers, stared down at them.

"He also developed distaste for your children. Especially Trixie," she added looking at Peter and Helen Belden and noting the tightening of their mouths. She completely missed the triumphant look Ed Lynch slanted at Sharon, rubbing the spot where she elbowed him a minute or two ago. "Trixie ran circles around him, the rest of the kids following. She ferreted out more crime than Trent ever did. It began to eat at him, I think."

Matt wrinkled his patrician nose and retorted, "So you're telling us Trent had it in for the kids, especially my daughter-in-law, because they solved more crimes than he did? It sounds kind of…crazy." He shrugged his husky shoulders with his palms up.

"That's a _part_ of it." Melinda took a deep breath. "Right before I fired him, he came to me with a masterful piece of investigative journalism. It was brilliant. All about two billionaires living in the lap of luxury in a small New York town, while they and their companies engaged in political chicanery, bribery of government officials in foreign lands and possible money laundering for drug cartels. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. They had a bank president and a chief of police in their pockets and unlimited resources to pursue their criminal activities and hide them well."

Helen's and Maddie's faces drained of all color, which seemed to migrate from them in some mysterious way and into the wildly flushed faces of the other occupants of the room.

Melinda spoke slowly and distinctly. "I suppose you can all guess who the billionaires were. Ted Schoenfeld brought me the article as soon as Trent turned it in." It was Melinda's turn to flush now. "W…we had to check it out. I mean, if what he was saying was correct…" her voice trailed off.

There, it was out in the open. If what Paul Trent had alleged in his article was true, _The Sleepyside Sun_ would have published it. Would have brought down the Houses of Wheeler and Lynch with nary a second thought. Hell, the paper might have won a Pulitzer Prize. And Melinda Bancroft would be respected in publishing circles. A small-town Katharine Graham.

"As Ted and I began to dig deeper, verify the allegations, it became apparent that the article was based on slyly worded half-truths and out and out lies. Trent's brilliant exposé was nothing more than smoke and mirrors. He never even thought for one moment that we would actually doubt his words, check out the story before publication." Melinda stopped for a moment, looked at the absolute disdain on Regan's face. It was obvious that he was reining in his Irish temper with difficulty.

"So, we fired him, Ted and I." In a stronger voice, Melinda continued. "If that article had been true, I would have published it. I would have rejoiced at seeing justice served. But it wasn't, and our investigation just proved what everyone already knows to be the real truth about all of you: good people, sensible, with strong community spirit and kids that are poured from the same molds. But Trent, he assumed that I was in your pockets…"

"And this is his way of exacting revenge," Matt almost shouted. "A cheap, coward's way out, using the kids to get back at us…all of us, including you, Melinda. He knew you'd have to come here."

"Yes. Come and confess to you all that I would have published it. Would have ruined all of you if I had the chance," Melinda's voice was low, shattered.

Sharon Lynch spoke up. "Look, I don't think any of us here could find fault with you. You had a great story, guaranteed to increase circulation and bring two suspected white collar criminals to justice. A lot of publishers wouldn't have bothered to verify the facts. But you did, and then you did the right thing by quashing the article. It took a lot of courage on your part to come here and confess your part in this sordid little drama." Sharon's voice was gentle.

Bill Regan scrubbed lightly at his closed eyelids, willing the white hot popping lights of an incipient migraine away. "What do we do now?" he asked, his voice hoarse and throat raw.

"I'd advise you to contact legal counsel, right away," Melinda offered up. "I don't think he said anything in this trash that you can sue for, but then again, I'm not an attorney and I have the best legal minds behind the paper for a second opinion."

"I'm going to get in touch with George Rainsford's firm early in the morning," Matt stated firmly. "I know he has a number of contacts even if his firm doesn't handle slander." He walked over to the window, stared out of a long moment. When he turned back, his face was fierce. "I am going to make Paul Trent pay for every lying word in that piece of sh…garbage. Even if I have to throttle the life from him myself."

**Back at the girls' apartment…**

Jim and Brian met at the entrance to the apartment building, each with equally grim looks and copies of mangled magazines. Giving Mel a curt nod, they rode the elevator silently, grappling with the knowledge their lives were about to change, and definitely not for the better.

As the tinny elevator voice announced their floor, Jim had the overwhelming urge to just punch something. Anything. If Paul Trent was here, no doubt he could have taken out his rage in a very satisfying manner. Brian released a pent-up breath and a coarse swear word that summed up both his and Jim's feelings concisely.

Grabbing Jim's arm, he said in a low, furious voice, "We need to calm down before we go in there." He gestured to the girls' door.

"Yeah, well it isn't _your_ face plastered across every damn newsstand in the world," Jim growled, shaking off Brian's hand.

"No, it isn't. But my girlfriend is in there with some pretty nasty things said about her. Diana, too. And the club." Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. "We need to think things out clearly, talk calmly."

Jim leaned against the wall, exhausted. "God. What's Trixie going to think? They don't even mention I am married. My parents. Yours. Regan. The Lynches." He ran a hand through his red locks as Brian knocked loudly.

As the door opened, Brian shrugged helplessly.

**In Trixie and Jim's apartment…**

Trixie was sitting in her closet, her back leaning against the frame of the door. She had arrived about fifteen minutes previously; had decided to stash her goodies in the back of her closet, covered by a couple of hastily thrown sweatshirts. In her lap was a copy of _OMG! _;her hand rested lightly on the cover.

The sexy cover with _her husband_ on it. One the shop girls tittered over. One that was prominently displayed on every single newsstand she passed, or so it seemed.

The inside of the magazine was no better. The articles about Jim, Honey and Di were sly and hurtful. The mentions of Dan and her family were couched in terms that made it seem like…like the BWGs were a bunch of rich kids behaving badly. Unless you were smart enough to read between the lines. Carefully constructed sentences that 'imagined' they were like this, but no hard proof. Unnamed sources.

And the author? _Paul freaking Trent._

She picked up the magazine by its corner, as if the obscenities inside might somehow crawl out and over her, and placed it on the floor. Trixie drew her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead on them, closing her eyes. She needed these few minutes alone to compose herself, to blink back the frustrated tears.

Oh, she had a great marriage to the man she loved since forever. She had a wonderful job with men who respected her ability and were teaching her things no university class could. And, on the other side of the coin, she has a professor who didn't like her too much and was doing everything possible to sabotage both her and Honey; a nagging worry that she didn't spend enough time with Jim; and now _this_.

Clasping her arms around her legs, she sat that way for a long while.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada**

He woke up to a loud, querulous voice, calling for him. _Becky_. She'd want a report on the date with the latest possibility. He'd slept late, a cardinal sin in Becky's world. _His _world. _One_ of his worlds. There was the world Becky knew nothing about, the world he was creating on the island across from his home. The one where the agonized screams of the things he brought over and played with filled him with a sense of power, of light. A world where he didn't have to remember that Becky was ill, falling apart, and he was not yet successful in finding her replacement. No, in the world on the island, he was King and his subjects, well, bled for him.

He shrugged into his silk robe and crossed the hall to Becky's room. She was there, in the middle of the bed, one sapphire blue eye glaring at him. That always shiny blue eye. No matter what, it shone for him and him alone.

Her voice, once a sexy, dulcet wisp that wrapped around his libido like a soft, chiffon scarf was becoming more raspy lately, more strident. More…accusing.

"Did you screw her last night?" The words were sneering, nasty. "Is that why you can't get up at a reasonable hour?"

He pushed the thought of the way he cheated on Becky with the thing over on the island. But he couldn't banish the niggling thought that he'd like to do it again. And again.

"God, no Becky. You know I'd never do that." He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, sat down on the side of the bed. He stroked her good hand with his fingers, softly, reverently.

"You haven't been with me in a while," she argued. "You're not attracted to me anymore. And everything I am now is because of _you_." She swept her hand over her ruined face and body.

"I'm…I'm afraid I'll hurt you more, Becky." It was true. Every day more hair came off; her clothes were yellowing and crumbly. She was just so _fragile_.

"You can be gentle. Show me how much you love me," Becky demanded.

He drew a line across her breasts with one long finger, slowly and carefully, and felt himself becoming aroused. She could always, always make him want her. As he moved over her, positioned her leg, he felt it disarticulate.

He looked down in horror to see her leg lying detached in his hand, and an unearthly keening sound coming from her throat.

Her screams filled the house as he lurched to the bathroom, and emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

It never dawned on him her screams were like those of the women on the island, and that he was the cause of them all.

A/N: Thanks to my editors, Mylee and Grandma Cindy, who keep me honest!

Lyrics are from _Two Out of Three Ain't Bad_ by Jim Steinman and sung by Meatloaf; used respectfully albeit without permission.

_OMG! _ is a gossip magazine I invented, but recently found out there is a gossip site on the web called omg. My invention has nothing to do with the website!

_Katharine Graham_ was the publisher of the _Washington Post _during the Nixon administration and is widely credited with allowing her reporters, Woodward and Bernstein, to follow the trail of the Watergate break in which eventually led to the resignation of the President and the downfall of his administration.

_The Pulitzer Prize_ is an award given by Columbia University for excellence in journalism and the arts.


	19. Tabloid Trix Chapter 18

Tabloid Trix Chapter 18

As soon as Honey let Brian and Jim into the apartment, Jim's green gaze swung around, looking for his wife. "Trixie's not here yet?" he asked, grimly. _Please, please don't let her have seen that cover yet. _

"Not yet, Jim," Dan replied, looking at his friend's set expression. "Do you want to wait for her, or do you want to clue us in as to why you summoned us here?"

Brian and Jim exchanged a glance. "Might as well," Brian murmured. "We don't know how long it's going to take her to get here." They both threw copies of the magazine on the coffee table.

"Go ahead, pick one up and pleasant reading," Jim ground out, his voice tight. _Where the hell was Trixie?_

The two women and two men each pulled a magazine from the untidy heap. Both Honey and Diana looked at the photo of Jim on the cover, right there beside Jen and her latest beau, eyes widening in total disbelief.

Dan's reaction was more verbal. "What the f…hell?" His voice was deep with shock. "What the hell is going on here, Jim? You…you couldn't have _posed_ for this, could you?"

The glare from Jim's icy green eyes pinioned Dan to the recliner and answered his question without a word spoken. The living room, full of normally rowdy Bob-Whites, was eerily silent save for the whisper of pages being flipped. Brian was sitting by Honey, who lost every vestige of color in her face and looked like she was about to faint. Di's eyes were drowned amethysts.

Jim rubbed a weary hand over his jaw, where the telltale tic was working overtime to keep up with his increasing stress level. Exasperated, he walked a short distance from the others and pulled out his cell phone, and dialed his errant wife.

As her cell phone trilled out the special tone she reserved just for Jim, Trixie raised her head from her knees, and sighed. "Jim," she answered slowly, almost painfully. Her voice hitched and she couldn't continue, not unless she wanted to start a fresh round of tears.

Jim, whose redheaded temper was flaring out of control, felt it deflate with Trixie's one hoarse word. His name, with that little uptick at the end that let him know she was in tears. "Where are you, baby?" he whispered into the phone.

"Home," she said, simply. Her constricted throat wouldn't let her speak more than one word.

"I'll be right there." Turning to the rest of the group, Jim's face was bone-white and weary. "I'm going to get Trix."

He expected to see her on the couch, or at the kitchen counter. Jim never expected to find her slumped in her closet, a copy of that cursed magazine at her side. He knelt down, tipped up her face with a long finger under her chin. "Trix." One word that spoke volumes.

Trixie's normally joyful, fresh expression and sparkling sapphire eyes were notably absent. Instead, Jim stared into her red-rimmed, drenched delphinium eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Her nose was pink and she was sniffling, and trying so hard not to let the next crystal drop fall. Her mouth moved, but she couldn't force the words past her lips.

He hated it when she cried, hated feeling helpless and unable to make it all better. Hated Paul Trent with a passion to equal that of his hatred for his stepfather. Trixie burrowed her face into the space between his neck and shoulder, and he felt the wetness of her tears on his sensitized skin.

"I'm sorry, Trixie," he said, despair in his voice. "So sorry you had to see that." One large freckled hand was stroking her back, offering a little comfort; the other was entangled in those long, soft, blonde curls that still had the ability to make him crazy with longing.

Her voice was muffled against his chest. "It's not your fault. There…there were these ladies…" she stopped, willing the tremble in her voice away. She pulled her head away, her blue eyes searching his green ones. "They…they were giggling and making comments about…about you, like you were some piece of meat or something." Her eyes flashed blue fire. "I'm your wife and they were having eyesex with your picture right in front of me!"

Jim's heavy lids dropped over his eyes and a slight flush rose in his cheeks. It was his turn to lean his forehead against Trixie's. "You are mine and I am yours. _Forever_. I don't care what some silly women were talking about. I only care that they hurt you with their comments, baby." He'd be damned if he would let Paul Trent ruin their marriage. _He'd see Trent in hell first._

They sat there for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, letting the love and strength flow around and through them. "The Bob-Whites are waiting for us, Trix. Everyone's there."

"Oh my god, I've been so selfish! Jim, what about those awful things Trent wrote about Honey and Diana? And bringing up Dan's past! What's he trying to do to us, Jim?"

Jim stood up and stretched a strong arm down, pulling his petite wife to her feet. "I don't know, Trixie. None of us do. But we're sure as hell going to find out."

**At the Locard Society headquarters…**

Will Brietling finished reading the article in _OMG! _ Anna stalked into his office a few minutes before, a flush on her fine features and a flash in her eyes. Taking a thumb and a forefinger, Will gently rubbed at his eyelids, willing the ignition of his own temper down from flashpoint to mere sizzle.

"Not your usual reading style, Anna," he commented. "I thought your tastes ran more to _The New Yorker _ and _National Geographic_, not trash like this."

She knew Will well, knew he was trying to get a handle on his own outrage by gently teasing her. Most times, it worked. But she had developed a real affection for Trixie Frayne and her overprotective husband. "What are we going to do about this, Will? Any sane person could see this whole article is built on half-truths and lies. Trixie is going to be very disturbed by this." Anna paced in front of the desk, a veritable picture of, as they say in the Regency Romances she was so fond of, high dudgeon.

Will's swift and sure fingers were scrabbling over the keyboard to his computer, and he was listening to and enjoying Anna's fit of pique – she was a mighty fine looking woman when she had the flush of temper on her lovely face. At the same time his nimble mind was absorbing all the information he was able to call up on one Paul Trent using the resources available to Locard.

Will stroked his mustache. Some interesting things in Mr. Trent's file. In the past six months he'd had several drunk and disorderly arrests. No present employment was listed, but he had worked pretty steadily at _The Sleepyside Sun_ for quite a long time. Will felt sure there was a backstory there. In fact, he'd bet Locard on it.

"Well, Anna my dear, you can stop your pacing. We're going to take a short field trip tomorrow to Trixie's quaint little burg and do some…detective-ing." He smiled cannily.

Anna halted her march on the rug, leaned over Will's desk and gave him an enchanting, if a bit evil, grin. "Oh, we are, are we?" she inquired sweetly.

Will had to chuckle. And they say women were the weaker sex. Hell, all you had to do was look at any lioness protecting her cubs. Weak, indeed. "I suspect that Matthew Wheeler will be in here in the City, marshaling a coven of lawyers to combat this legally. We're going to see a bank president," he twinkled.

"I don't suppose you're looking for a great rate on an auto loan," she ran her hand over his shaggy hair, brushing it back from his forehead, her own soft eyes lighting up.

Will caught at her hand, lacing his long, thin fingers with hers. He brought their hands up to his mouth, kissed her fingers, and gave her a mischievous grin. "Maybe."

**Back at the girls' apartment…**

Diana answered Jim's hard knock, took one look at Trixie's red-rimmed eyes that were a match to her own, and threw herself into Trixie's arms. As Jim stepped aside, his sister flew out of her seat and joined her two best friends in a tight hug, gathering strength from them. The men watched helplessly as their women offered the type of consolation to each other only another woman could offer. Their muted voices, hands stroking each other's hair and tear-stained cheeks just drove the frustration level higher and higher.

Joining their hands, the beautiful triumvirate slowly walked back into the living room, barely hearing the incessant ringing of the cordless landline phone. Dan picked it up, his own mind still reeling from the revelation of his past gang affiliation in the magazine. While he never hid his past, his juvenile record _was_ sealed and expunged. The filthy innuendoes published in that rag hinted at a past filled with Crips and Bloods; drugs, sex and recreational murder. While the Cowhands weren't exactly innocents, they were far and away from the type of activities the other gangs mentioned carried out as a part of their existence.

"Hello?" he muttered into the phone. This was going to kill Uncle Bill and Mr. Maypenny.

"Dan? It's Matt Wheeler. Is my daughter there?" Dan listened to the strain evident in Mr. Wheeler's clipped tones. _He knows._ "We're all here, Mr. Wheeler," he said. "I take it you've seen the magazine."

Matt did not like the defeated tone in Dan's voice. Looking around at the other parents in the room, he put the phone on speaker and mouthed the words 'they know' to the others. "Put me on speaker, Dan."

"It's your dad, he asked me to put him on speaker." Dan placed the phone on the coffee table. Matt's voice came booming out.

"I have your parents with me, and Regan," Matt said. "We've all seen _OMG!_" His voice was grim. "Now we have to do something about it."

"Why, Daddy?" Honey's voice broke. "What does Paul Trent have against us?" She didn't want to cry anymore, but the sound of her father's voice made her feel like a little girl again, like daddy could magically make it all better.

Matt was clearly struggling to find the words, to get them past the large lump that formed in his throat. Peter Belden coughed once, and took the reins of the conversation.

"Honey? It's Peter Belden here. It appears that Trent went to _The Sleepyside Sun_ with a fabricated exposé about Wheeler/Hart International, E&S Lynch, and money laundering done under my auspices at the bank." The three Belden siblings looked at each other in horrified shock. "Chief Molinson was supposed to be in this too. When the editor and publisher checked out some of the supposed facts and could not verify them, Trent was fired." Peter rubbed his dark hair, now shot with some silver.

"But what does that have to do with Jim or the Bob-Whites, Daddy?" Trixie had two spots of color in her waxen cheeks, a sure sign to the others her temper was getting the best of her. Her small, white hands clenched into fists.

"Trent thinks that Matt and Ed are paying off the publisher or have some kind of hold on her, and that's why she backed off and fired him. She came to see us just a little while ago."

Brian exploded. "That's just freaking ridiculous. Is he on drugs or something?" Honey was astonished to see her normally calm boyfriend lose his famed cool.

Diana spoke up in a small voice. "I still don't understand what all that has to do with us."

Matt Wheeler opened his mouth to answer, but Trixie beat him to it. "Simple, Di. He blames our families for his predicament. What's the best way to get revenge on a parent," she looked at Dan, "Or another loved one?"

Jim answered for them all. "Hurt their children, or children under their care," he responded, his voice tight. "So he concocted this whole…story, to get back at our parents."

"I'm meeting with George Rainsford tomorrow in the City," Matt said. "Once I confer with him, we'll have a better understanding of what we can do to call a halt to the publication of any more articles about you, all of you."

"And what do we do until then, Dad? It's not your face staring out at every newsstand in New York." Jim's exasperation showed in his flushed face and thin mouth.

"Jim, it's Moms. There's nothing you can do until Matt talks to the lawyers. All of you. Just go about your normal business. Hold your heads high. We'll get _OMG! _tied up legally and Trent too." Under her breath, Helen murmured, just loud enough for everyone to hear, "Even if I have to _tie him up_ myself."

Mart, uncharacteristically quiet throughout the call, broke into gales of laughter at his mother's comment. It wasn't very often Helen Belden lost her cool. In fact, he could probably count on one hand the number of times he saw her do so. "Moms, please don't go and get arrested. We have enough to deal with," he laughed, wiping his streaming eyes.

Mart's laughter and Helen's comment were enough to break the somber mood of the families. Matt's lips curved into a smile. "Well, we certainly have enough money to post bail, Helen, should you find Mr. Trent before the process servers."

He spoke firmly back into the phone. "I'll be in touch tomorrow, kids. We'll get through this."

"I'd like to punch that two-bit hack right in the face," Dan stormed, his eyes the blackest they ever were. In fact, he'd like to do something very, very nasty to Mr. Paul Trent. Something out of a Stephen King novel would be most satisfying. "I don't know why he had to dredge up all that stuff about our pasts."

Di had curled herself up into a little ball on the couch. "Well, there's certainly no shortage of unnamed sources in Sleepyside glad to dish out nasty little digs at us," she said sadly. "It really hurts."

"If there really _are_ unnamed sources," Trixie lashed out. "If Trent made up a bunch of lies about our fathers, why wouldn't he make up a bunch of quotes and hide under the unnamed sources shield?"

"Trixie's got a point," Brian added. "He's from our home town. He certainly knows our backgrounds. I bet he just threw together some stuff and figures he can hide his lies under freedom of the press." He shook his head. "I never liked the guy. He always seemed like such a rat."

Honey stood up, walked over to her brother and slid her slender arms around his waist. "How are you, Jim? You must have had quite a shock today." Trust Honey to put aside her own feelings and consider someone else's. He squeezed her shoulders and gave a small smile.

"I was wondering why everyone was looking at me strangely and taking my picture with their cell phones." He shook his head. "Mike actually showed me the magazine. Shocked doesn't begin to describe my feelings." His green gaze narrowed on his wife. She was standing there quietly, a rose flush across her face, and those big blue eyes with a slightly sad, lost look in them as she rubbed her hands up and down her chilled arms.

Honey looked up at him, her long lashes still sparkling with tears. "My picture in that…that trash, the hurtful things he said," a little sob tore at her throat, and Jim pulled her closer.

He stood there, caught between providing comfort to his sister, and wanting desperately to take that look out of Trixie's eyes. Whatever way he turned, he thought, someone was going to be hurt.

**Lyons, France, Lissa Thorne's apartment…**

It never occurred to Lissa that she was getting her life in order.

Her desk at Interpol, normally fairly clean, was now absolutely spotless. She didn't have that many personal items at work, mainly a few photos of vacations with some friends, someone's retirement party. They were now back at her apartment, filed away neatly in her meager photo album.

The letter from the landlord was still sitting in the organizer on her desk at home, unanswered and forgotten. Her lease was up shortly; was she planning on renewing?

Lissa was going through her closets with a ruthless hand, setting aside clothes, shoes and purses for a donation to her favorite charity. Her shredder was working overtime as she divested herself of old records, copies of checks and the detritus of modern living.

Sandwiched between an old cable bill and a receipt for a pair of sandals that had long since been discarded, she found the photograph. The back held the date, written in a childish round hand, and the inscription. _Jody and Lizbeth, BFFs!_

It was one of the very few things she still had from her other life. She traced a finger over her own face, and then Lizbeth's. They were smiling, with arms about each other's waists, and both cheekily flashing the peace sign with their other hands. A cloudless summer sky hung above them, intensely blue.

God, would she ever feel that way again? So happy? So carefree?

A few short months after that picture was taken, Lizbeth disappeared. Her parents frantically calling the Lavigne house, their worried voices wanting Lizbeth to please be there, she won't get punished for staying out after curfew.

The devastation in their voices when they learned that Jody was in soccer camp all day and hadn't seen her best friend.

The tearful pleas on television; helping her parents put up MISSING GIRL! posters all over town. The detectives in charge coming to her home, questioning her, gently and no-so-gently, about everything in Lizbeth's life. Was she happy? Did she have a boyfriend? Do drugs? She ever talk about being abused? Running away?

And the worst question of all…did she know what happened to Lizbeth?

And that was it, the guilty part. She didn't _know _what happened to Liz. Couldn't say for sure, yes, my younger brother probably killed her. She had no evidence, couldn't even provide a motive. She only had the sly look in his colorless eyes, the smirk that was swiftly disguised whenever anyone spoke of _poor Liz_.

Her bones, few that there were, weren't found until years later. Only the most astonishing luck had the skull completely intact, so that identity was established via dental records. The one thing that was never made public, but Lissa had access to, was that Liz's eyes were cut from their sockets. The kerf marks made by whatever implement was used to extract them were still etched firmly in the bone of the sockets.

She was widely regarded as the first victim of the Dollmaker.

But Lissa knew better. There was a four-year old girl that was also a victim, and countless family pets, both from her family and neighborhood families.

But in her heart, she knew that among the first victims of the monster known as the Dollmaker were her mother, father and herself. She wasn't dead, but she might as well be.

What she had now couldn't be termed living.


	20. Tabloid Trix Chapter 19

Tabloid Trix Chapter 19

Dawn Boyd knocked softly at the heavy oak door, and entered slowly. Mr. Belden came in this morning looking like death warmed over. She wasn't at all sure that he would want to see the distinguished couple waiting patiently near her desk. _It's probably Trixie again_ she snorted to herself. Mr. Belden's only daughter may have gotten married last summer to that yummy Jim Frayne but everyone in Sleepyside knew her propensity for getting in trouble. And giving poor Mr. Belden more gray hair, even though it made him look really distinguished.

"Mr. Belden? There's an older gentleman and woman here to see you. They don't have an appointment," she sniffed out her opinion of _that_. "A Dr. Brietling and Mrs. Ciccone from some society."

Peter rubbed his temples with his thumbs and exhaled sharply. The headache was pounding right through the aspirin he had gulped an hour ago, and he was sure his blood pressure was dangerously high. But he hadn't risen in the ranks of the bank for nothing; putting aside his personal woes, he asked Dawn to show them in. If his eyes were shadowed with pain and his smile was a bit forced, he hoped they wouldn't notice.

"Good afternoon, I'm Peter Belden. Please, have a seat and tell me how I can assist you."

Will Brietling was taking the measure of his protégée's father. _A man in pain_ he thought, _both mentally and physically._ Belden had a firm handshake and looked absolutely nothing like his daughter, but his oldest son was almost a clone.

"My name is Dr. William Brietling," Will introduced himself in his cultured voice. "This is my associate, Anna Ciccone. We're from the Locard Society." He waited a beat to see if Belden would recognize the name. When Belden continued to look blankly at them, Will's lips curved up in a small smile. "We're here about your daughter. Trixie."

Peter's warm tones and friendly eyes iced over. "If you're here about that…that piece of trash that was recently published, you're wasting my time and yours. I have absolutely nothing to say about that."

Anna glanced at Will. "We are here, in a manner of speaking, about that article. But we're also here as concerned friends of your remarkable daughter. And her employer."

"Her employer? She's a college student," Peter blustered. Why did he feel his world was suddenly spinning out of control? _Employer?_

"Mr. Belden, I am not sure if you have ever heard of the Locard Society. We're a worldwide association of the best forensic and detective minds in law enforcement. It's a very exclusive society, and your daughter is about to make history."

"History?" Peter repeated rather stupidly. "Trixie?" This was all too much.

"Mr. Belden, in less than a week your daughter will become the youngest and first non-professional member of the Locard Society," Will continued, gently. "She has accepted a paid internship with us. Now, after Anna and I leave, you can Google The Locard – that's L-o-c-a-r-d Society to ease your mind that we are not a cult or have nefarious purposes." Peter Belden looked startled, wondering how this elegant gentleman saw into his innermost thoughts.

Will noted the slight widening of Peter Belden's eyes, congratulated him silently on his poker face. "Mr. Belden, Anna and I realize," he coughed, "Trixie must have been a real handful growing up. But you need to accept the fact and realize your daughter has a brilliant, probably the most brilliant, intuitive detective mind I have ever had the privilege to know. She's more than one in a million, Mr. Belden."

Peter sat back, astonished. _Trixie? _ "She…she did cause her mother and I quite a few gray hairs," he stuttered out.

Anna raised a fine brow. "Of that, we have no doubt," she smiled. "Now, let me tell you all about Locard, and you can tell us why Paul Trent is smearing the Bob-Whites in what I lightly term…the press."

**At George Rainsford's office…**

Matt Wheeler was one of those people who never had to wait for an appointment. In his fashionable Italian silk suit, he looked like a poster boy for the billionaire's club. As soon as his leather loafers stepped foot on the marble floor in the elegant skyscraper, an assistant greeted him, escorted him to the private elevator, and right up to the boardroom. George was already there, his paralegal, a very competent-looking secretary and his junior partner, Mitch Zisa; and another man. Coffee, tea and freshly-baked Danishes were laid out appealingly on the sideboard.

On the mahogany table were several current issues of _OMG!_, looking completely out of place in such an austere and professional atmosphere. The only thing that would have looked more out of place would be porn. Rainsford stood as Matt motioned him to sit. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, George," he said.

"No problem at all, Matt," George smiled. His secretary practically snorted out loud. She only spent most of the morning rearranging his canceled appointments and listening to the complaints of the shoved-aside. "You know my secretary Denise and Mitch. This other young man is Charles Packer, my paralegal. I'd like to introduce you to Garrett deYong, my security consultant."

The man rose and shook Matt's hand; he had a firm grip and looked Matt straight in the eye, a measuring look. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wheeler," he said in a deep, bass voice.

"Thank you, Mr. deYong." If Matt wondered why George had called in a security consultant, his bland expression gave nothing away.

"Matt, I've also taken the liberty to contact Philip Ramsay of Ramsay, Michaelson and Pittney. I'm sure you've heard of them." At Matt's curt nod, George Rainsford continued. "He should be here in a moment." As George finished his explanation, there was a short knock on the door followed by the entrance of a cool, calm Philip Ramsay. His outer serenity belied his inner turmoil. After all, this was _Matthew Wheeler_. After the mandatory introductions and glad-handing, and once everyone had a cup in front of them, George called the meeting to order.

"I don't think I need to ask you why you are here, Matt," he gestured to the pile of magazines on the table. "But I'd like everyone else to understand your position."

Matt glanced down at the picture of his son on the front of _OMG!_ and felt his temper flare anew. His warm green eyes iced over, and a slight flush stained his cheeks. Denise, used to Matt's more affable manner, shuddered at the banked rage in his posture.

"I want to know how we can stop this…this piece of trash from printing anything more slanderous about my family and their friends," he ground out. "I want to find Paul Trent and choke the life out of him. I want to shutter this magazine for good, so it can't hurt anyone else."

Matt went on to explain the whole sordid story of Paul Trent's failed hopes and dreams, and the false accusations made against his company, E&S Lynch, and their supposed cohorts in crime, Peter Belden and Wendell Molinson.

"I'm going to defer to Phil's expertise in libel and defamation cases," George commented. "As you know, our firm deals primarily with Corporate and Estate Law." Matt turned those deeply green eyes on Philip Ramsay, obviously waiting for his solution.

Philip spoke slowly, making sure that Matt was going to understand everything he had to relay. "First, I'd like to apprise you of the definition of slander and libel. Slander is spoken untruths, reiterated to give the listener a negative image. Libel is written or broadcast or even manipulated photos, designed to impart a negative image. In order to proceed with a case, we need to determine how much of this article is, well, lies."

"None of it is out and out lies," Matt replied, not liking where this was going.

"No, just merely little sly twists on the truth," Phil inserted gently. "It almost would have been better for you if your local paper had published the web of lies about your company. You would have had him then."

Matt slapped a hand on the table. "So you're telling me I can't do anything to protect my family from this predator," he rasped out.

"No, not quite. I would counsel the following: one, we need to send a strongly-worded cease and desist letter. It's just a formality at this point. But it will put them on notice we are watching what they publish. Two, we will closely monitor any future issues for libelous statements. Three, you will need to cease – and this goes for friends and family also – any threats to Paul Trent's life. Even made in the heat of anger, if anything should happen to him, you would be a suspect. And four, you will need to listen carefully to the advice of Mr. deYong here."

Garrett deYong had been sitting quietly, absorbing all being said. He sympathized with Matt Wheeler and his family. He got the call from Ramsay and Rainsford last night, spent the night reading up on the Sleepyside contingent.

He was simply amazed that Wheeler was able to keep his family out of the press for as long as he had. Especially with that Belden girl leading the kids into some pretty dangerous situations.

"I know you're wondering why I'm here," he said directly to Matt. "My company, deYong and Associates, provides security services to public figures. That usually means television and film stars, but also such diverse people as athletes, judges, legislators…and people who find themselves in your situation."

"_My_ situation?"

"Look Mr. Wheeler, you and your family…and the Lynches too, I might add, have been able to keep a relatively low profile despite being two of the world's richest men. Your children, from what I can see, and their friends, are unspoiled, giving, admirable young adults. They aren't looking for publicity or to lead the jet-set life style. They aren't looking to star in a reality series. Yet, someone is intent on making them public figures. You and the lawyers can figure out a way to stop that. I need to concentrate on making your kids safe."

Matt sat back. "Go on," he said grimly.

"There are a lot of crazy people out there," Garrett said. "People who are going to look at the pictures of your daughter and her friend Diana, and decide they are in love with them. Not just men, either. Your son is a handsome man, made more so by his humble beginnings and his large fortune. There are going to be many women who will step right over your pretty daughter-in-law to get to him. If the magazine continues to print stories about them, expect onslaughts of lookie-loos traveling up to Sleepyside and right up to your doors at all hours. Your kids will be targets for possible kidnappers and worse." As Garrett was talking, Matt's face became paler and paler. He hated to do this, hated to heap more worry on top of the already stressed billionaire.

"I did some research on the kids last night. They're all in a secure building, a plus. We'd have a real problem in the dorms. I know you have a security monitoring company on each of the apartments. Good move. All the kids are on one floor, which is good and bad. Good because they're all in one place. Bad, because they're all in one place."

"I know there are banks of elevators in their apartment building. Two of them are designated freight elevators. You should get with the owner of the building. Ask if it's okay to modify one of the freight elevators to be altered to go directly to the 14th floor and the 14th floor only. Have a key pass or biometric pass installed. None of the other elevators should stop at the 14th floor."

"Not a problem," Matt interrupted. "I own the building."

"The police in Sleepyside should remain alert. If you get trespassers, they should be dealt with immediately. If it continues, we can get a security company to monitor the grounds and the Belden house, too." Garrett inhaled sharply. "And we need to assign bodyguards to the kids."

**At the Locard Society…**

Trixie barely noticed the death-defying taxi ballet Bastian performed as he picked her up from school and dropped her off at work. School wasn't as bad as she expected; no-one came directly up to Honey or approached her. She did note a lot of cell phones aimed their way, though.

As she let herself into the brownstone, she quickly keyed in the security code as the door shut behind her. She was alone today. Will and Anna had an afternoon appointment; Stephen was up in Boston providing a consult on a kidnapping case in the news. It was better this way. One look at her and they'd know something was wrong.

She really shouldn't feel this way, she told herself. After all, she _was_ married to Jim. He didn't pose for that picture, or ask to become a male pinup for salivating salesladies. He didn't ask for Honey to burrow into him for comfort, when Brian was sitting right there and Trixie herself needed Jim. It was petty of her to want to deny her sister-in-law the loving arms of her brother.

But she still felt that way.

For the first time in their married life, they didn't snuggle together on their bed, fall asleep in each other's arms. Jim kissed her goodnight, got into bed and turned his back on her. She lay on her side of the bed, stiff as a board, her nimble mind awash with the day's events. Jim, emotionally exhausted by his stormy day, fell asleep rather quickly, much to Trixie's surprise.

Trixie listened to his steady, deep breathing. Normally, just the sound of his breath lulled her to sleep or the steady and sure beat of his heart when she cuddled against his broad chest. The few inches of space between them might as well be a gulf as wide as the Atlantic. He never heard when she slipped out of bed and went to their office…

And buried herself in homework, both for school and for her job.

She was overly bright with him in the morning, had she realized it. He noticed right away, saw the light violet smudges under her eyes. Noticed what she thought she hid so well … the lost, hurt look in those haunting eyes.

So Jim did the only thing he could do. He bent and kissed her, his kiss trying to express all the things he couldn't say. He ran his hand through that hair that fascinated him with its bounce and energy since the first moment his eyes lit on her. "I love you, Trix," he told her. "I love you."

Trixie automatically scrolled through her mail, looked through the items Will had sent her. Her eyes lit immediately on the response from Babble On; they confirmed her interpretation of the almond milkshakes Brenda Harper provided her husband with. She forwarded their email out to Oregon; the police there already reopened the case and were awaiting some heavy metal poisoning tests.

Will had also forwarded an agenda of Thursday's meeting of the Locard Society. The one where she would really become a member. There would be a dinner, followed by her formal acceptance into the society. After that, non-law enforcement personnel would be escorted to another room, where they would watch a first-run movie, while the society members pored over the details of the newest case and listened to the presentation of the petitioners.

The presentation was from the detectives in charge of a child kidnapping/murder in a small town in North Dakota. The three-year-old was playing in his own, fenced in back yard; his mother was giggling at his antics as he raced after a butterfly. Her telephone rang and she ran inside, just for a second, to answer it. She couldn't have been gone more than two minutes. One minute Scott was there; the next, all that remained was a swinging gate.

He was found several days later, ten miles from the abduction site. His body was heartbreakingly covered with a child's blanket printed with happy, smiling rubber duckies. He wasn't sexually molested, unusual in itself; cause of death was determined to be a single blow to the head.

Trixie became aware of the rising excitement that was swamping her feelings of inadequacy. Yes, that was just what she needed. A mystery to concentrate on. She finished up the rest of her mundane tasks and focused on the facts of the case.

**At NYU during the afternoon…**

Brian Belden was slumped over in the lecture hall, eyes far away. While the rest of the class filed out, he was caught in a picture his mind's eye kept playing over and over.

_She turned to Jim instead of him for comfort_. His girlfriend, or his supposed girlfriend, circled her arms around her brother's waist and leaned her beautiful face against his chest for comfort after the debacle with the article Trent had written. Honey's beautiful topaz eyes were swimming in tears, her face pale and mouth a thin line of pain.

_It just wasn't right._

Jim _should_ have been taking care of Trixie. _Her_ blue eyes were wide with shock, sadness and something else he couldn't define. He freakin' _married_ her. Weren't husbands supposed to cleave to wives? And isn't he the world's biggest jerk for being jealous that a brother and sister would find comfort with each other after a damning piece of trash revealed their private lives to the world?

It's time they talked, really talked. He was going to get Honey alone as soon as possible, studying and jobs and everything else be damned. Brian scrubbed a large hand over his handsome face. He had a terrible premonition that the hard part hadn't even started yet.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

Livvy Dufresne came awake very slowly. Her sinuses felt like they were stuffed with cotton balls, and she had a jackhammer of a headache. Her eyes felt like they were glued shut, and her body was aching all over.

The last thing she remembered was Jordan pouring some chilled white wine into her plastic tumbler. A picnic, yes the moonlight picnic. It was so romantic. She wore something soft and floaty. It was near the river, near a big house. She remembered being nervous that the people who lived there might come out and shoo them away. Jordan just laughed, and said he wasn't home. The guy who lived in the big house wasn't home.

Then he spread out the blanket and settled her down, and she was just so…aroused. He was so handsome, so charming, so…everything. He kissed her cheek softly, asked if she was hungry. She was, but not for food. And then he poured her some wine, and things got awfully fuzzy after that.

Boy, she must have one hell of a hangover if she couldn't remember the rest of the night. Slitting open her eyes, waiting for that first stab of pain when the light hit them, she realized she was not in her bedroom. In fact, she was not in his bedroom, or any sort of nicely-furnished room at all. Livvy pushed herself to a sitting position, while her head spun round and round.

The last thing she felt before swimming back into blackness was the iron manacle around her ankle.

**Back at Jim and Trixie's…**

James Winthrop Frayne II was pacing from the living room, to the kitchen, to the dining room and back again. He swore his sneakered feet were about to wear a path in the floors, waiting for Trixie.

_Waiting for Trixie._ It seemed he'd spent half of his life waiting for Trixie. Waiting for her to come and find him when he was picking crops for a few cents an hour and a good meal. Waiting for her up at Manor House when she came to visit his sister, his insides all twisted up with yearning for her. Waiting to see if she'd grow out of that stupid yen for Ben that made him so short-tempered and hot. Waiting to see if she was still alive after he helped pull her out of that sinkhole in a cave; the agony of waiting after she and his sister were kidnapped in Mississippi.

_Waiting so impatiently for her to grow up so she could grace his bed_.

God, if she wasn't the most contrary, bull-headed, soft-hearted, sexy, gorgeous creature he ever laid his eyes on. She could make him so crazy he'd see red, and in the next second, make him want to tear off her clothes and chain her to their bed. He just _needed_ her. Her and _only_ her.

His green eyes were darkly glittering when he finally heard the snick of the lock, and her call. "Jim? Sorry I'm late! Time just got away from me." She clicked the lock closed, activated the alarm. "If Bastian didn't…"

She never finished the sentence. He grabbed her arm, spun her around and plastered her to the door; his body in full contact with hers, his mouth on hers. Plundering, ravishing, male. He wanted to take what was his, and she was _his_.

His mouth left hers briefly, only to greedily return again and again, until they were both gasping for air. Her arms were limp at her sides as her book bag and messenger bag slid to the floor with a thump she never heard; she was in complete sensory overload.

He slid his hands down her arms, pulling them up and over her head, pinioning her wrists with one large hand while the other slid down her side, ending up at her slender hips, pulling her even tighter to him. His mouth left hers, pressing a line of openmouthed kisses from her jaw to her ear. His beloved voice, raspy and low, said but one word: _mine._

Her soft moans, the unconscious provocation of her body sliding next to his, moving against his as if it had a life of its own and didn't need direction from her overloaded brain, were filling him with the hot, insistent, pounding need to be one with her.

She didn't even flinch when he let go of her wrists and hips, and ripped open her blouse, buttons scattering everywhere. They were beyond thinking, beyond hearing, so neither one noticed when their cell phones chimed at exactly the same time.


	21. Tabloid Trix Chapter 20

Tabloid Trix Chapter 20

Peter Belden pulled into the long driveway at Crabapple Farm, and sat for a minute, staring at the farmhouse that had been home to generations of Beldens. The past couple of days were surreal. Not only was his son-in-law (and that title _still_ brought on a bit of a cringe) plastered across a sleazy gossip rag, but his daughter was apparently some sort of second coming of Sherlock Holmes. He shook his fine head in wonder.

Brian was the calm, responsible, studious one. Mart was the wordsmith and joker – always a dangerous combination. Bobby was the athlete and mischievous one; he and the Lynch twins were incorrigibles. And Trixie? Trixie was in a different category altogether. His hands on the steering wheel of the car, he thought back to when he and Helen were expecting Brian. They'd never label their kids, they decided. The pretty one; the smart one; the troublemaker. Kids had a tendency to live up – or down - to what a parent expected of them.

And, of course, like most people who don't have children, all those lofty plans evaporated like the early morning mist once the babies actually began arriving. Maybe they didn't say so in front of the kids, but they each held a special place in his and Helen's heart. And they each had a label.

But Trix? Trixie was the one who blithely pitted herself and her best friend against hardened criminals. Whose quick brain could dissect and analyze a crime scene faster than a computer. Trixie, who looked more and more like a porcelain doll the older she became, and the rebel child who caused black fear to bloom in their hearts more than once. And gray hair to sprout seemingly overnight.

He and Helen never wanted to admit that their fondest wish was for Honey and Trixie to drop their notion of running a detective agency and you know, take something up more suitable in college. Like teaching. Or landscape design. Or basket weaving. Anything else but becoming detectives.

Now this. An unexpected visit from his daughter's employers (_and when was she going to get around to tell them _that_?_); a man greatly respected in the field of law enforcement who informed him Trixie _was_ truly gifted. Peter did take Dr. Brietling up on his invitation to Google The Locard Society. After the pair left, Peter sat numbly for a while, and then began to research the principals involved.

He was extremely impressed with the work Locard was doing; extremely impressed by the founders. He couldn't help the swell of pride that rose up out of nowhere. They wanted _his_ daughter.

Helen Belden was standing at the back door, had been since Peter pulled in. She watched as he just sat there for a long while, his capable hands on the steering wheel. Worried, Helen wondered if the whole magazine drama was getting to him. She scooted out the door, letting it bang behind her much as the children did. She chuckled to herself, happy that Bobby had practice today so she didn't have to pull out the old parental adage: _do as I say, not as I do._

Her knock at the driver's side window startled Peter, made him turn his head and smile at the woman who caught his heart so many years ago. Her blue eyes were full of worry, although her lips were curved in a small smile. She moved away from the door as Peter opened it. Resting one slim hip against the side of the car, she searched his face.

Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he buried his face in her blonde waves. Both her arms slid around his waist; an automatic gesture of comfort. Taking a deep breath, he informed her: "I had quite an afternoon!"

One slender hand left its resting space on his narrow waist and found itself brushing back his hair in a tender gesture. "Why don't we go inside and you can tell me all about it," Helen invited him. "A cup of decaf and a bit of conversation. I bet you won't have as much fun reading _The Wall Street Journal._"

As they walked inside, Peter's deep voice was saying, "I found something interesting out about Trixie today…"

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

After he got Livvy situated, he could not quash the excitement that was rising steadily in him. His mind was exquisitely crystal clear; all the colors and shadows of the world seemed so vibrant as his vision narrowed to two dimensions, as it normally did in these times.

Exquisite clarity came with a price.

He wanted, really wanted to go down to the cellar and play with his captive. From the moment they met for their picnic, he could sense her arousal. It fed his intensifying exhilaration and pleasure with his prowess. He could be _anyone_, do _anything_. He was _invincible_.

Becky wanted it to begin _now_. The change. But he was too wired. He'd end up hurting the new one and incurring Becky's sharp tongue. He needed…he needed to cut. He needed to dance with the slippery red stuff, let it wash over him like a healing, warm rain.

He settled Becky down with loving, soothing words. He was tired, he explained, and he wanted to make it perfect. Perfect for her. Mollified, she backed down, bade him goodnight. He crossed out of her room, into the hall and downstairs until he was sure her querulous voice had quieted for the night. Then it was out the back door, into the dusty, black and battered Chevy Cobalt. The Honda had been gracefully retired from active service.

By the time the sun was rising on the banks of the St. Lawrence, another family sat worried in their house. Their daughter hadn't come home yet. She was a good girl, kind and a bit naïve. As the girl's mother looked out over the river, stained red with the rays of the rising sun, she was spared the knowledge that the lifeblood of her daughter mixed in with the dawning of the new day.

_He_ was peacefully sleeping in his own bed, nude, the waters of the St. Lawrence having washed off the telltale scarlet. A baptism, in a way. A fresh day where he would again see in three dimensions, not like before he played with his latest…thing. The blood geysered up from her jugular, a red, coppery shower; and suddenly he was alive again, and the world no longer resembled the flat picture of a movie screen.

He was alive, and the rest of the world, maybe the _universe_, existed to serve him.

**Morning in the State of New York…**

The blast text message from Matthew Wheeler to a certain group of people last night was simple and to the point: _Strategy Conference, Sunday Noon, Wheeler Bldg. Board Room._ It didn't ask for an RSVP. He didn't need to. He knew everyone would be there.

**At **_**OMG!**_** Editorial offices…**

Nanci D'Rue and Paul Trent finished up the layout of the next article. Her eyes glistened as she looked at the mock-up of the cover. Jim, with one arm around his sister Honey and one wound round the slim shoulders of the beautiful Diana Lynch. They all had a little smile playing on their lips. One that seemed to whisper of secrets and sex, if you were a certain type of person. And if you _were_ that certain type of person, you could use your gift with words to whip others along that dark path.

Of course, the magazine would _never_ bother to explain that the trio was busy watching Trixie get another half-hearted dressing down by that inept police chief in that little town they were from. No, the readers would be led by the nose down the path _OMG!_ wanted them to follow. _**Secret Society of Billionaire Kids! What Really Happened in the Gatehouse!**_

The article itself had a pretty picture of the gatehouse the kids restored with their own _earned_ money, but of course did not mention _that_ fact. A few more blurry pix of the Belden contingent; a sharply focused picture of Dan in his black leather jacket. Only Nanci and Paul knew the picture was manipulated. The picture was old, dug out of Sleepyside archives, but updated with the more mature Dan's face, making it seem like he was still maintaining his old ties. He looked dark, and dangerously sexy.

_The billionaires' kids and the gang member_. Who knew what illegal pleasures he was sharing with them, teaching them? A bunch of wealthy teenage kids in a house in the woods with no supervision to speak of. It was the stuff a certain type of editor dreamed about.

"This week's issue is selling very briskly," Nanci smiled at Paul. "Not quite a sellout yet, but close to it."

"It's going to get even better next week, when we do the big reveal on Trixie Frayne." Paul rubbed his hands together. "Is Nick getting a lot of comments on the web?"

"Hell, yes! Traffic has nearly doubled." That wasn't saying too much since traffic wasn't all that much to begin with, but it _was_ steadily climbing. Nanci suddenly frowned. "Do you think we should put the Trixie issue off a couple of weeks? We seem to be doing great with the unattached Jim. We might be able to go a couple more issues teasing the sex and drugs or booze angle in that little clubhouse they have."

Paul glanced down at the table, a sudden stabbing pain in his gut. He needed to think fast. "No, I think we should go ahead as planned. Sooner or later the gossip shows and other magazines will catch on to what we're doing. Let's get the reveal out there as soon as possible so we don't get 'scooped.' Besides," he said slyly, "The crazy ladies will just ignore the fact that he's married like they do with every other celebrity." He held his breath, waiting for her response.

Nanci's face was screwed up in concentration, mulling over what her star reporter just said. "You're right, Paul. Let's keep hitting hard on this. We don't want to allow anyone else to cash in so early in the game." _This guy has great instincts. We'll go with him. _For now.

**Sunday at Noon, the Wheeler Building…**

Bill Regan was standing at the window of the sleek black granite building that merely had a large brass plaque announcing the address. Forty stories up, in a conference room that nearly equaled the size of his apartment over the stables. He scrubbed a large, freckled hand over his face and had to chuckle inwardly. Here he was, rubbing elbows with two of the richest men in the country. Him, Bill Regan. It simply boggled the mind.

He rode into the city in a damn _limousine_, for God's sake, in back with his employers and their best friends. He would have been more than thrilled to sit up front with Tom Delanoy and shoot the breeze about those damn Yankees, but Mr. Wheeler cleverly maneuvered him away from opening that front door and instead, Regan found himself sitting in back with the big guns.

Damn, it made him sweat.

First to Crabapple Farm to pick up Peter and Helen; then onto the highway and into the city. Mr. and Mrs. Lynch would be meeting them there, as well as the kids. Chief Molinson too; the Lynches were bringing him.

Up in the boardroom, the Chippendale sideboards in the room were groaning with brunch. Eggs, bacon, hash browns; buttery croissants and all kinds of Danishes; tempting sliced fruits and yogurt; orange and apple juice and enough coffee and tea to float an ocean liner.

As everyone started to trickle in, one thing Bill Regan noted with a tiny tilt to his lips: nothing could keep the appetites of Sleepyside contingent down. Everyone, himself included, was filling their plates and a number of Mart Belden jokes were keeping everyone entertained.

The kids arrived in a big, noisy group. If Jim looked a bit pale and the smile did not exactly reach Trixie's eyes; if Honey's and Di's hands were nervously fluttering; if his own nephew's face was strained, no-one commented.

As they filled plates and bantered, Phil Ramsay and Garrett deYong strode into the crowded room, followed closely by three very large, very tough looking men dressed casually. Regan sat down, Dan sitting next to him with a filled plate and a clap on the back. "Thanks, Uncle Bill," he whispered, awed that this taciturn man would come into the City for him. _Again_. He knew how much his Uncle Bill detested being away from the stable.

"You're mine, Dan," he said gruffly in response. The two men settled back. Those words were as close as Regan could get to 'I love you.'

"Who're the muscle?" Dan hitched a thumb over to the big men, joyfully filling their plates with just about everything.

Regan shrugged his shoulders as Matt called the room to attention.

"In a few days, another issue of _OMG! _will hit the newsstands," Matt began. "I'm sure it will be as…_flattering_ as the first issue. I thought we'd have this meeting here, in the Wheeler building, far away from possibly prying eyes and idiots with telephoto lenses."

"Dad, can't we stop them?" Jim broke in. Under the table he was grasping Trixie's hand. "Isn't there some kind of a law they're breaking? We're not celebrities or anything. We didn't ask for this."

Matt grimaced at the raw pain in his son's eyes. "According to Mr. Ramsay here, we can't get them for libel…yet." Why couldn't he make this better for his children? He had a gazillion dollars and _he couldn't make it better_. His gut was churning up vast amounts of acid.

Phil Ramsay stood up, noticing Matt Wheeler's real distress. "My name is Phil Ramsay, and one of the specialties of my law firm is going after publications such as this. Now, you all know me, and I know Mr. Wheeler here. Why don't you all introduce yourselves to me and Mr. deYong? Then you can ask me any questions you want, and if I can answer, I will. If not, I'll get back to you A.S.A.P."

The round robin of introductions went quickly, but it was Trixie Belden Frayne who caught the interest of Ramsay. The research gathered by the very expensive private investigative firm he had on retainer indicated that _she_ was the lightning rod for this close-knit group.

And the other, unannounced fact that was brought to his attention…she was about to eclipse everyone in this room, money aside, when she was inducted as a member of the prestigious Locard Society in a few days.

And true to her nature, Trixie spoke up first. "Can you stop the publication of the second issue?" she demanded. "I am not looking forward to seeing any more pictures of my husband or my friends and family in that piece of trash." _Or watching other women drool all over him either._

"Unfortunately, no." He held up his hand as the Bob-Whites began a loud grumble amongst them. "Can any of you look me in the eyes and state that the information contained in the article was untrue?"

"No, not all the way untrue," Diana piped up. "Just...just sort-of untrue."

"What I don't understand is why Trent is starting all of this stuff _now_," Brian ground out. "I mean, okay, he never liked us, Trixie especially, but why now? We never did anything to him."

"Quite simply, Brian, he's down and out. It's quite a fall from living in a small garden apartment in a charming village to a roach-infested transient hotel downtown. For that, he blames all of you," Ramsay's arms swept the room in an all-encompassing gesture. "He can't or won't blame himself."

"But why wait so long?" Honey asked pointedly.

Ramsay smiled at the pretty honey-blonde heiress and steepled his fingers. "A very good question. Why now? We asked that question ourselves. While we don't yet have all the answers, we have dug up a few interesting facts on Mr. Trent. After he lost his job at _The Sun_, he was unable to get a job in the legitimate press without references. You know, print journalism is giving way to ejournalism and broadcast journalism; even social networking sites. No self-respecting newspaper was going to hire him without a reference when they were letting talented reporters go. He began working as a stringer for _OMG!_ and a couple of the other sleazefests because they were the only ones willing to take a chance on him. Although," Ramsay mused, "His forte was more the _Crazed Albanian Albino Dwarves Ate My Baby_ type of story rather than pure gossip, although he did both. He did sell a few of those types of pieces to the more sensational press."

Mart snorted. "I'm sure he did, just as I am sure that he checked all the facts to make sure the story was 100% true." He looked down at his plate and briefly wondered what happened to all the food he had piled there, and stood up for his second go-round.

Trixie was absently rubbing Jim's knuckles as she listened to Mr. Ramsay. Her eyes widened in shock as she looked across the table at her partner. Honey took in Trixie's expression and she smiled at her grimly. "Go for it," she mouthed.

"So, Trent writes a few stories for _OMG! _and the even sleazier press," Trixie said. "Gets in their good graces."

Honey picked up the narrative. "He tells somebody there about Sleepyside and its wealthy citizens. Maybe he says he has some dirt on them."

"But they're not interested in some old guys – sorry Daddy!" Trixie shot a quick smile to her chagrined father. "So he says he has a bunch of rich kids, a former gang member and us Beldens, a pretty good looking lot if I do say so myself…"

"And they jump on the chance to print something out of the ordinary, something no-one else has," Honey crowed.

"Voilà! Their very own reality stars. Trent gets his revenge and a steady paycheck." Trixie smiled across the table at her best friend. There really was nothing quite like the Frayne-Wheeler Detective Agency in action.

Ramsay was so shocked that the two women reached the same conclusion in less than 30 minutes as his really expensive agency on retainer, he stuttered out, "No wonder Locard wants you, Trixie. I have no doubt Honey will be the next member."

Trixie's face flamed with that hated blush. "Yes, well, be that as it may, we have other issues to tackle." She hadn't told her parents or in-laws yet. Now it seemed her reticence was about to backfire as Matt and Maddie looked at her in askance.

Ramsay immediately recognized his gaffe, and covered up quickly, as lawyers with golden tongues were wont to do. "Chief, you and you men will need to monitor the activity on Glen Road. Kids, I need you all to carefully review _anything_ that is published about you. If something is an out-and-out lie, you need to contact my office immediately. Even pictures can be photoshopped expertly. If they put your head, Mart, on Arnold Schwartzenegger's body, you need to let me know."

"Well, I don't know about that," Dan snickered. "It _would_ be a great improvement."

"Yeah, I hope they paste your face on…on Pamela Anderson," Mart retorted.

Ed Lynch brought everyone back to the present with a smart click of his coffee cup on the inlaid wood of the table. Giving Mart and Dan what he hoped passed for the evil eye, but in reality was more like a stoner on the verge of passing out, his booming voice took the spotlight. "Anything else, Mr. Ramsay?"

Philip Ramsay shot a grin at Lynch, thankful the meeting did not degenerate into a snaps fest. "This is Mr. Garrett deYong, and he'll talk about your security issues."

Garrett deYong watched the young adults exchange confused glances. He read them well. _Security? We don't need no stinkin' security._ Oh yes you do, kids, _oh yes you do_.

"You probably noticed that one of the freight elevators in your building has been out of service for a couple of days," he began. "It's being retrofitted with certain security measures in order to ensure that all of you are safe when at home."

"But we have a doorman and alarm systems," Brian interjected. What more could they need?

"And that's wonderful. It's a first-line defense; but that's not enough." The big man placed both palms flat on the table, looked each Bob-White directly in the eyes. "Doormen…however nice, friendly and wonderful can be bribed. They can become reporters for the very magazines you are trying to avoid, reporting on your whereabouts, your fights, what food was delivered and what medicine the pharmacy brought in for delivery. Alarm systems can be bypassed, especially in an apartment building."

"I don't want to frighten you, but we have to realistic. Jim, Honey and Diana are children of very wealthy men. Jim is also very wealthy in his own right. Besides looking like an easy mark to the criminal element, now you're also going to have to contend with the mentally ill people who decide your picture is talking to them and that you love them. People are going to want you to invest your money with them, give them loans or outright handouts. My firm specializes in protecting people like you, who, through no fault of their own, find themselves thought of as public property."

"I bet you had more cell phones and cameras aimed in your direction in the past few days that you ever suspected existed. Have you been asked for autographs?" Jim flushed at that one, surprising Trixie. He never told her that. "Your classmates may become resentful. Or overly friendly. You may be accused of things you never did – paternity suits, for the men, I-had-wild-and-crazy-sex stories for both the men _and_ women. Honey and Diana, if you wear a loose-fitting top, you'll be pregnant. You need to be prepared for all of this, and worse."

Jim dropped his head into his hands. "How can it be worse than what you just described?"

DeYong sat back down; he certainly had everyone's widened eyes riveted on him now. "Imagine a knock at the door, Jim. Your pretty wife goes to answer it, and the young lady on the other side simply pulls out a gun and blows her away, simply because she feels Trixie is in the way of her perfect love. Believe me, it has happened. If this story catches fire, you'll find paparazzi dogging your every waking moment. They'll be documenting every move, every expression, every morsel you put in your mouth. Whenever one of you talks to a member of the opposite sex, you'll be 'hooking up' with that person. Your friends, and I use that term loosely, will sell you out for the almighty dollar. People you barely spoke one word to in your lives will suddenly have stories all about you. Those stories are rarely of the gee-what-a-wonderful-guy variety." DeYong paused for a much-needed breath. "Now, back to the elevator."

"The elevator is being modified to go to the 14th floor and lobby level. Those are the only two floors it will stop on. The other elevators will not be able to open on your floor, unless a special bypass code is entered in case _your_ elevator is out of order or there is an emergency. You will get in and out via a biometric lock. Full palm prints." He paused, knowing the hardest part was yet to come. Gesturing to the three large, silent men at the table, he continued on. "These fine fellows are your bodyguards. At this point, we only think we have to shadow Honey, Diana and Jim. We'll see if there is any escalation or threats after the next issue. So far, the Beldens have not been prominently featured and Dan got a few more lines, but not many. Trixie should be covered mostly by either Honey's or Jim's guy, but right now we don't see a threat to her."

Dan spoke up. "What about Kaitlin and Aidan? Can they be given security clearances, Mr. deYong?" He didn't relish the thought of having to ride the elevators twice in order to visit his girlfriend.

Matt glanced at deYong, saw the question in his eyes. "We'll discuss it, Dan." His firm voice closed off any complaint Dan might voice. He looked at his children and their closest friends; he would do anything in his quite considerable power to protect them. Even if it meant running roughshod over their feelings, which were very evident in the mutinous looks being cast his way.

"What about the stairs?" Of course, _she_ would ask, deYong grinned inwardly. Locard's little prodigy.

"You can get out, but no-one can get in. Let me also mention one other thing; keep your shades drawn. You may be 14 floors up, but paparazzi with telephoto lenses up on the roof of one of the other buildings will just be waiting to catch you dancing in your briefs to _Old Time Rock 'n Roll_."

"Now," he concluded with a sharky smile, "Are there any questions?"


	22. Tabloid Trix Chapter 21

Tabloid Trix Chapter 21

Trixie Belden Frayne was sitting at her desk at Locard, the newest issue of _OMG!_ laying almost painfully in the middle of all that clean space. Her fingers were pressed into her eyes, to try and prevent the headache that was forming from blooming into a migraine.

The past few days were not exactly restful. Jim was irritable about having to have a bodyguard. It embarrassed him to have to walk everywhere with Hulk shadowing his every move. That, and having to call the man 'Hulk.' The only saving grace was that Hulk didn't have to live in their apartment. Her father-in-law had gotten the three bodyguards into a vacant apartment one floor down; close enough right now, while there weren't any overt threats.

Honey and Di were a bit more accepting about Tiny and Big John, but just a bit more. Honey was mortified when Big John almost tackled David, her study partner, when he ran up to her near the student center. Although David accepted the apology gracefully, he was careful to keep a watchful eye on the bodyguard. It made studying most uncomfortable.

Some of what Mr. Ramsay said at the meeting Sunday was coming true. It seemed to Trixie there was always a gaggle of very young teenage girls hanging outside the apartment building, just waiting for one of the male Bob-Whites to exit. Jim and Dan were embarrassed hearing the screeches and catcalls. Brian and Mart hadn't experienced it yet, but she felt it would be coming soon.

_And now this_. It wasn't just Jim on the cover this time, but Honey and Diana, too. The headline and article made it sound like the Bob-Whites were having sex and drug parties in the gatehouse, and Dan was still a member of a nameless gang in the City. Mart and Brian were mentioned a lot more, had a couple of pictures, too; but there was almost no mention of her, which she supposed was a good thing.

All that going on, and tomorrow she was being officially recognized as a full member of Locard. The society was meeting at Chamber House, a private club that they utilized when meeting. There would be the presentation ceremony, then dinner and a little time for networking, before they would review the latest case. Jim and Honey would be with her, up until it was time of closed Locard business.

_And_ she had to give a speech. _And_ wear something dressy. Was there no _end_ to her torture? At least Masse cancelled class today; that was a boon she didn't expect. Sighing, opening up her email, she was immensely cheered by the email from the police in Oregon. Tests on the liver and brain tissues retained from Jerry Harper's autopsy showed massive ingestion of cyanide. Brenda Harper was arrested after police searched her house and discovered a cache of potassium cyanide, used normally for the development of photographs, not so cleverly hidden among the household cleaners. Where she obtained the poison was being investigated.

She delved into today's work, humming a bit as she did so.

**Professor Masse's Apartment…**

Luke Masse took _one more_ glance in the mirror. Yeah, he looked good. Professorial. Loafers with argyle socks, dress jeans; a light blue button-down shirt with the top three buttons carefully unbuttoned; tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Hair neither too long nor too short; a careful check of his teeth to ensure nothing unseemly was caught there.

Yes, he was ready for Dr. Will Brietling and Detective Stephen Jensen and anything _else_ Locard could throw at him. He rubbed his hands together in glee. This was a fabulous week! All the dirt that sleazy magazine was publishing about the husband of Trixie Frayne and his rich sister, Madeleine Wheeler; their so-called friends – and wasn't Daniel Mangan a student there? He could have sworn he heard that name bandied about.

A quick check of the enrollment roster and there he was, sophomore in Criminal Justice. A carefully composed email to Frank McCormick, Dean of Students regarding Mr. Mangan's extracurricular activities should precipitate an end to his career, too. Masse shook his head – next thing you know they'd be admitting Crips and Bloods.

A few more minutes and he'd be hailing a taxi to take him to the Village and the brownstone where Locard was located. God, he walked by it often enough. That tantalizing, discreet bronze plaque beckoned him to the door so many times. He never found the courage to knock or ring, though. No, that was beyond his capabilities. It was so much easier to be pushy via the anonymity of electronic communication.

He walked out of his apartment, a skip to his step and hailed a taxi. He never had a problem getting one. As he settled himself inside and gave the driver the address, he gave himself up to the fantasies crowding through his head.

Trixie Frayne, disgraced former student, and Luke Masse, PhD. and newly-anointed member of the esteemed Locard Society.

Wouldn't _that_ be a kick in the ass to his former colleagues?

**Back at Locard…**

"I still think we should warn Trixie that Professor Masse will be here shortly," Anna was advising Will and Stephen. "She's had a really rough week. I'm not so sure seeing him here won't push her over the edge." Her arms were crossed in front of her and she tapped a foot lightly on the rug in front of the large desk.

Stephen was leaning against the bookcase to the side of Will. "Maybe Anna's right, Will." He ran his large, dark hands down his jean-clad thighs. "You saw how stressed she was all week. Springing this on her may not be in her best interests right now."

Will stroked his snow-white mustache, and considered what his friends and co-workers said very carefully, before discarding it with a gentlemanly snort. "I think you're both underestimating our gal. We need to see what she's going to be like under pressure, with an unpleasant surprise."

"Will, she's still only a teenager," pleaded Anna.

Will leaned over his desk, patted the hand that was plucking at the pen holder. "Anna, she's married, runs a household, goes to school full-time and holds down this job…quite adequately I would say. She may be perturbed, she may even get angry but I think our girl will come through for us with flying colors."

She pulled back her restless hands, stuffed them in the pockets of her navy blazer as a frown co-opted her usual serene expression. "Or she may turn around and walk right out that door and never return." Anna walked over to the door and pulled it open. As she exited the office, she turned to the two men. "Just think about it, boys."

The door silently snicked closed as she left the two men staring thoughtfully after her.

**At Java City…**

Brian sat at the far table, taking his place on the other side of his best friend. Both men were studiously trying to ignore Hulk, who, to his credit, was trying to look as inconspicuous as possible while nursing a vanilla latte one table over.

Brian nodded in Hulk's direction and whispered to Jim, "I would have pegged him for a black, extra bold supercharged 20 ounce no-holds-barred puts-hair-on-your chest type."

Jim had to laugh. Hulk was sitting here with the smallest size engulfed in his ham-sized hand. "And he drinks _herbal tea_, too!" he confided in Brian, green eyes twinkling. God, it felt so good to laugh.

Both men sat back in their chairs, silence comfortable between them, while Brian tried and failed to come up with a manly way to ask Jim what he really wanted to know. He just hoped he didn't come off as one of those pathetic whiners.

"So…Jim," he paused, taking a drink out of his go-cup. "Ummm, how's Trixie? All ready for the big day tomorrow?"

"You know Trix, Brian. She's more worried about tripping on her dress than speaking before a group of educated criminologists."

"Yeah, that's Trixie. Remember that time she was wearing that god-awful orange dress Moms made her wear and she fell flat on her face right in front of us? I practically wet myself trying not to laugh."

"I remember. Celia and Tom's wedding. And you and Mart just stood there making smart-ass remarks. No wonder she gets anxious. You guys probably gave her a neurosis or something." Of course, Jim did not reveal to Trixie's brother that what he really wanted to do back then was take her somewhere, relieve her of that ugly dress, and kiss her hurts away.

_That _would have gone over well. He couldn't however, prevent the small, secret smile from curving his lips. There may not have been counterfeiters, jewel thieves or evil stepfathers, but that one was adventure he would never forget. Especially her yen for Ben, and storming out of the stables when Honey informed them Trixie's heart was broken. Jim was torn between wanting to go beat the crap out of his cousin for hurting her, and absolute glee that nothing happened.

"…can't figure it out, and believe me, we tried," Brian was saying. He looked pointedly at Jim, waiting for a response.

Jim blinked his eyes, looked sheepishly at Brian and admitted, "Sorry Bri, I was woolgathering there for a minute. What can't you figure out?"

The other man simply rolled his eyes. He should have known better. Whenever Jim got that far-away, soft look in his eyes, he was daydreaming about Trixie. Holy cow, they were married now! Ya think the man would have gotten over it already.

"Honey and Di, and why they are suddenly too busy for Mart and me," Brian explained. Again.

Casting his amazing green eyes downward, suddenly becoming very interested in the pattern of the Formica-topped tables, Jim frantically bargained for time. "Well, with all this going on," he began, only to be interrupted.

"C'mon, Jim, it started happening way before this magazine thing." Brian rubbed a weary hand across his face. He looked so miserable, Jim wanted to spill everything he knew. But then, he'd have to contend with the girls _and_ Trixie. He was sure there was some marriage rule that covered this. But hell if he knew what it was!

Hulk, who really was trying not to listen to their conversation, skootched his chair over to the table and said in a stentorian whisper, "Maybe I can help as a disinterested third party." Jim grabbed onto the offer like, well, like Trixie grabbed onto a mystery.

"That's a great idea, Hulk," Jim smiled. "Why don't you join us?" As the big man walked around the table to a chair more suited to casing out the joint, Brian's jaw was still on the floor. "And how the hell is a guy named _Hulk_ going to help us?" he hissed to Jim.

Hulk placed his vanilla latte delicately on the table, and turned his face to Brian, although his eyes continually watched the customers coming and going. "What's the problem?"

Rubbing his temples and considering whether the description 'best friend' was still applicable to the redhead sitting across from him, Brian reluctantly began to relay his love problems to a guy who looked like he chewed through steel walls for fun.

**Back at Locard…**

Luke Masse rung the bell underneath the neat brass plaque that simply said "The Locard Society." He was actually dropped off in front about ten minutes ago, but needed the time to try and calm his jumping nerves. He was finally here, invited here by no less than Dr. Brietling himself! If he neglected to listen to that little part of his brain that was advising him the invitation was not because of his prowess as a detective, it was because he was a tattletale; well, he was used to quashing that tiny voice.

The older woman who answered the door gave him a cool once-over as he identified himself. His detective instincts may have been rusty, but he knew icy politeness when he saw it.

And he made his first assumption: the woman was Dr. Brietling's housekeeper or maid or whatever the politically correct term was nowadays. He dismissed her obvious dislike of him with a roll of the eyes behind her back.

She took him through the house; a rather circuitous route, but these old brownstones, especially a huge one like this, often had a labyrinthine floor layout. Masse concentrated on keeping up with the sourpuss – she may have been older, but she could really move.

Anna Ciccone gave a perfunctory knock to the door with the understated shiny brass nameplate that said William Brietling, Ph.D. Founder, before she opened it wide. "Will, Professor Luke Masse is here for his appointment."

To Masse's surprise, she stepped into the room instead of leaving it, and motioned him in. A slight flush stained his cheeks as the gaunt, white-haired legendary criminologist rose from his chair behind the huge desk. Standing next to could only be Stephen Jensen, second in command at Locard and just as brilliant as the good doctor himself.

Masse hurried to the other side of the desk, proffering his hand to both men. A silence filled the room as Brietling and Jensen seemed to examine him as if they were cataloguing him under a microscope. He glanced down at the desk, only to see a copy of his book, _The Werewolf Murders,_ strategically placed in one corner.

He made his second assumption: they, esteemed members of the Locard Society, actually wanted his autograph! After all, he _did_ catch one of the more notorious serial killers plaguing the west coast.

Neither man had said anything yet, and Masse supposed they were a bit awestruck at meeting the man who was on the best-seller list for an astonishing 6 months. A smug smile curved his lips; although it didn't happen as much, he was used to the recognition and adulation.

"I see you have a copy of my book, Dr. Brietling," he said, hoping to break the spellbound silence. He waited a beat for the autograph request he was sure would be forthcoming.

"Hmmm, oh yes. Sit, sit, Professor Masse." He gestured to what he called the supplicant chairs in front of his desk. Rarely used, but good for a little psychological intimidation. As Masse sat, Will took his own seat, and Stephen stood silently behind Will.

"Did you like it?" Masse asked boldly. He was sure of the answer. After all, it wouldn't be right there on the desk if they didn't like it. The autograph request would be next. He knew it.

"Hmmmm?" Will seemed confused.

"My book," Masse explained, pointing to it, sitting _right there_ on the desk. Maybe the old guy was getting senile after all. "_The Werewolf Murders."_

Will waived a dismissing hand over it."Oh. That. Your garden variety psychopath. He was devolving, you know. Always makes it easier to catch them when they start to get sloppy."

This was not exactly what Masse had expected, and it threw him for a moment. "Well, the Locard Society _didn't_ help on that one," he said, a bit snidely.

"No, we did not. We have to be invited to investigate, _and_ we have to accept. The LA detectives who were handling it were very close to solving it."

Masse sat back, unsure if he was just given a stinging slap or not. He began to debate. "Dr. Brietling, I…"

Will again waved his hand back and forth, shushing Masse into stunned silence. "Well, that's neither here nor there." He lifted a shaggy brow. "We're here about a much more recent matter. You say that a student in one of your classes has possession of a Locard Society pin?"

Anna got the message and left the room quietly. Masse never even noticed the soft snick of the door.

_Okay, if that's the way you want to play this, Dr. Brietling. Locard is still going to owe me big. _"Yes, that's exactly right. A female, freshman. I noticed it right off."

Up until this point, Stephen Jensen was silent. "Did you ask her about it? Where she obtained it? She may not have been aware of its significance."

Masse laced his fingers. "She's in criminology; she should know the significance. I have no idea where she obtained it, nor did I ask. She's…she's one of my more difficult students. I also figured you would want to interrogate her," he added as a crafty afterthought.

"It's very strange; none of our members is reporting a lost pin. We do have one of our Investigators on-site. Our newest Member, to be sure. Investiture is tomorrow, at the bi-monthly meeting. Maybe you could work with this person to solve the Mystery of the Missing Pin."

_Hell, yeah! _ "I would be happy to work with any Locard member at any time regarding anything." If he was a bit disappointed Dr. Brietling and Detective Jensen weren't going to be personally involved, well, he guessed the President of the United States didn't hire each Secret Service man personally either.

A sharp rap was heard at the door, and it was flung open in the usual high-energy way Trixie had about her. "You wanted to see me, Will?" She charged into the room, eyes on Will and Stephen, and did not notice the man sitting in shock.

"Professor Luke Masse, I'd like you to meet Trixie Belden Frayne, an Investigator for Locard and our newest member."

**Back at Java City…**

Brian rolled his eyes. He actually was sitting there, pouring out his woes in an unstoppable flood to the man they called Hulk. It was apparent to him that his best friend and brother-in-law was totally amused. He could tell by the smirk curving Jim's lips.

"So, how long have you been dating Honey?" Hulk asked after Brian petered to a stop.

"Ummm, oh over a year." He looked puzzled. "Why? What has that to do with anything?"

"And when exactly did you notice her drawing away from you?"

"A while after Jim proposed to Trixie. That's all we heard about for months. He made it real difficult on us." Brian shot a dark look at Jim. "_Real_ difficult."

Hulk turned the go-cup round and round as he wrinkled his brow. "How did Jim marrying your sister make it difficult for you? I don't see the connect."

Brian batted his eyelashes at Hulk and pressed both hands delicately against his heart. In a silly falsetto voice, he began to imitate Honey. "Oh Brian, wasn't it sooo romantic how Jim proposed to Trixie in the school parking lot? Oh Brian, isn't Trixie's engagement ring gorgeous? And so meaningful to her and my brother. Oh Brian, didn't you just want to cry at their wedding when they gazed into each other's eyes and repeated their vows? It was sooo romantic." Brian batted his lashes again. "I couldn't even talk to her about anything else," he groused.

Hulk tilted his bald head to one side. "So, you're telling me that you never, ever talked about anything else other than Jim here and Trixie since they got engaged and married months ago? Nothing else at all?"

Brian's eyes widened at Hulk's insightful comment. "Well, I _guess_ we did, but it just seemed to me we didn't."

"So, when you went to the cinema, or out to dinner, or," Hulk glanced at Jim, "Made love, you didn't talk about how good the movie was or what you wanted to eat or whisper I love yous to each other. You talked about Trixie and Jim."

Put that way, it did sound kind of ridiculous. Brian frowned, leapt to his own defense. "You're taking everything I say and twisting it around."

"So how do you know you and your brother aren't taking simple comments the women make and twisting them around?' Hulk asked prosaically. "What do you think they want from you?"

"Marriage!" Brian all but shouted. Jim leaned back in his chair, his green eyes twinkling with laughter. It was just swell to see the normally unruffled and calm pre-med student losing his cool.

"So then you think that all the talk about Jim and Trixie getting married was to sort of urge you down the same bridal path."

"Yes, yes, that's it, exactly." Brian let out a breath.

"What did you do when your girlfriend dragged you to jewelry stores to look at engagement rings for fun? Did you say anything then? Or made you watch all those reality wedding shows on television? I swear I never want to see another white dress. Did she leave copies of _Brides_ magazines in strategic places? My ex-girlfriend used to leave them in the john," he confided.

"Honey didn't do any of that!" Brian looked horrified.

"Well, then how do you know she wanted to pressure you into marriage? Isn't it possible she was just happy for her brother and your sister and that's simply it? Let me tell you, when my ex started dropping hints, it was more like a battering ram. And that's why she's my ex."

Hulk was about to say more, when a couple of teenage girls came in the shop, holding copies of _OMG!. _"Look!" one screeched to the other, her face a mask of adolescent lust. "Jim and Brian!"

The other girl let out a scream, and they both began jumping up and down. Hulk shot up very gracefully for a large man, and stationed himself between the girls and his client. "Move, gentlemen, _now_," he ordered. He stationed himself in front of the girls while Jim and Brian made a hasty exit. As he was hustling them down the street and to the safety of the apartment building, the girls followed them out, a respectable distance behind the large man.

"Jim, I love youuuuu," called one, making the object of her affection flush as red as his hair.

"Briannnn," called the other. "Look at me. At me! Just loookkk!"

As they made their way inside the apartment building, life, as they knew it, was ending on the screams made by their unwanted and infatuated fans.

**Back at Locard…**

Luke Masse briefly considered that he may actually have suffered some sort of insult to the brain that affected his auditory canals and optical nerves. For a moment, he thought Will Brietling introduced that little blonde-haired rich bitch as a member of Locard. Everyone knew that was impossible. She wasn't even a professional in _any_ sort of law enforcement capacity.

The interested audience of three watched the vibrant red wash across Trixie's face and her normally animated blue eyes ice over. "Professor Masse and I are acquainted," she said, steadily, her eyes never leaving his face. "He's my Crim 101 teacher."

"Ah, well, then, we can dispense with formalities," Will continued. The sparkle in his faded blue eyes grew steadily stronger. _She was _magnificent. Masse was sitting there, pole-axed, while Trixie maintained her composure under stress. It was good. Very good.

"Did you just state Mrs. Frayne is a member of Locard?" Masse demanded. "How is that possible?" He watched as the woman went to stand with Dr. Breitling and Stephen Jensen. "She's _just_ a student, or did her father-in-law or husband buy _this_ for her, too?" He was past being polite and reasonable.

Trixie later reflected there was nothing quite as icy as a tony British accent dressing down someone, as Stephen's head reared back and he responded to the insult. "I think you should be aware to whom you are speaking, Professor Masse. As you well know, from your _incessant _messages to the Society, we are not in desperate need of funding. Mrs. Frayne, had you bothered to do _any_ sort of Google search at all, is an extremely talented detective, one who has solved many, many crimes, along with her partner, Madeleine Wheeler. Because of her unusual gift, she was unanimously voted into the Society. Not _everything_ has to do with money. "

Will's voice broke in. "You contacted us because you wanted to relay the information that a student at JJC was in possession of a Locard pin. Since Trixie is also a student there, she may be able to assist you in discovering how this person obtained the pin." _Yup, let's just throw some fat on the fire. _

"You must have deduced Mrs. Frayne was the student," Masse ground out, humiliated. They played him! All of them, right down to the damn housekeeper.

Trixie, silent up to this point, turned to Masse. "You could have asked me about it, Professor Masse," she quietly informed him. "Although it's not something I advertise, I would have informed you of my circumstances. I would have even given you the direct line here so you could check with either Will or Stephen."

Stephen was taking in Masse's furiously flushed face. Raising a finger, he warned, "Be careful what you say, Professor."

Masse struggled to rein in his temper. Turning to Dr. Brietling, he spoke rapidly through clenched teeth. "As I explained, the anonymous student, who we now all know is her," he hooked a thumb towards Trixie, "Is one of my more difficult students."

"Really, Professor Masse? I came into your class excited and eager to learn, more than willing to give _you_ a chance. You, however," Trixie said coldly, "had it in for Honey and me since day one. All you could see was the dollar signs by our names. _Now_ who is the mercenary one?"

"Trixie, my dear, since we have this matter of the Locard pin resolved, you are excused to go back to your office. Stephen and I have much to discuss with your Professor."

_Could this day possibly get any worse?_ Trixie stood up, smoothed her sweater and gifted Masse with one last parting shot. "Next time, Professor Masse, all you have to do is ask. You remember how to do that from your glorious days on the force, don't you?" She really, really tried not to flounce out of the room, and was only partially successful.

Masse was sure his blood pressure was at dangerously high levels, possibly even lethal levels. Brietling and Jensen may think they got the better of him, but hell, _she_ was still a student. And _he _was still a professor and that gave him rank over her, in an area that Locard couldn't influence. And he _so_ intended to pull rank.

"You had your little hour of fun, gentlemen – and I use that term loosely." Masse sneered. "If you call your housekeeper to escort me out, we'll each pretend this episode did not occur."

Of all the reactions to his speechifying Masse may have expected, the deep, booming laughter from the two men in the room was certainly not one of them.

"Anna Ciccone is not _exactly_ what you would term a housekeeper," Will almost giggled. _She'd be so tickled by this. _

_Great. Anna Ciccone_. Not only a retired expert in forensic anthropology, but sister to one of the most renowned forensic psychiatrists in the world. Masse stood up, expecting Dr. Brietling to do whatever magic necessary to get Mrs. Ciccone in there.

"Sit down, Professor Masse. We have more to speak of," Will said, a serious expression replacing his amused one.

"I don't think we have anything else to discuss, Doctor. I reported a possible misuse of a pin; it turns out it's Mrs. Frayne's, blah de blah blah blah. Matter resolved, you had a good laugh and now it's time for me to depart."

"I said, _sit down_, Professor Masse. _Now_." As Masse looked into the banked rage reflected in Dr. Brietling's faded blue eyes, he actually swallowed some fear as he plopped down. Hard. "I was going to speak to you as a colleague. However, since you intend on taking this matter into the gutter, don't _ever_ hesitate to understand we will meet you there and fight as dirty and despicably as you intend to. Tut, tut, tut," Will held up a hand as Masse opened his mouth to speak. "You will listen to me _very_ carefully, Professor Masse."

"You may think that writing a fictionalized best-seller of the capture of a madman conveys certain rights to you. All three of us here, in this office, know this book is drek. We all know you didn't write a word in it. And we all know that it was the detective work of the task force attached to the werewolf murders that would have eventually led to his capture. You brought the perp in for a DUI offense. No 'brilliant detective work' involved," Will said baldly, quoting one of the blurbs on the back of the book. "On _your_ part."

"Now, you could have taken the high road," Will mused. "Given credit where credit was due. Instead you took _all _the credit. Made enemies. The other cops in your squad couldn't even look at you. And it's _very_ dangerous out there for a cop with no back-up. A cop who spends more time on talk shows and doing interviews than being out there solving crimes."

"They were all jealous," Masse interjected, a bitter note to his voice.

"No; they were all _disgusted_, a difference you can't or won't see," Stephen said.

Will sat back in his chair, his one hand stroking his thin mustache as he studied Masse, as closely as he would any of the criminals he studied so fiercely. The professor was lightly perspiring. His eyes darted from side to side, as if looking for an escape route. His hands were clasped tightly together in order not to reveal the fact they were trembling…in rage or in fear, maybe a combination of both. He kept swallowing convulsively. And Will knew the man's fight or flight instinct would shortly manifest itself, and he needed to take him down a notch.

"Why did you keep contacting us, Professor Masse?" Will's gentle question completely threw the other man, as he suspected it would. "You must be aware that we here at Locard rarely give interviews or do question-and-answer sessions with students."

"Because I kept hoping I would be the exception to the rule." The admission was out of his mouth before his brain time to censor it. He rubbed his hands nervously on his thighs, expecting Dr. Brietling to ridicule him.

Instead, Will cocked his head to one side and blinked several times, as if he was considering what Masse said. Encouraged, Masse continued. "I thought maybe because I was a professor at John Jay, a celebrated author, a member of law enforcement myself, that I stood a better chance of snagging Locard. It would have been a coup," he added, his voice taking on a forlorn note.

Will scooted his chair closer to the desk, leaned his elbows on it and laced his fingers. "Professor, there is a great disconnect from what we here at Locard do, and what you just stated." When the man on the other side of the desk drew his eyebrows together in bewilderment, Will continued.

"Locard was created to be of service to the public and law enforcement agencies that have baffling, dead-end cases. We do what we do out of concern for our fellow citizens of this increasingly smaller planet; to give victims some kind of justice, even if it's only paper justice sometimes. Locard isn't looking for rewards, or adulation or an appearance on a talk show. What you just stated – _you_ are a professor, _you _are a celebrated author, _you_ wanted Locard as a coup…don't you think that a better tactic would be 'I was hoping that someone from Locard could speak to my students about the difficulties and rewards of a law enforcement career.' And that," Will said, more quietly, more profoundly and more intensely than any stronger, angry words could shake Masse, "Is the difference between Locard, Mrs. Frayne and you."

Stephen, silent until now, picked up the threads of the conversation. "If you think that Trixie Belden Frayne and Honey Wheeler are merely little rich girls riding the coattails of their family, you are very wrong. Both Trixie and her husband come from very modest circumstances. Honey Wheeler may have been born rich, but every penny these kids donated to charity, every event they sponsored to help others, down to paying the insurance on their broken-down old station wagon came from money they earned themselves."

"So where does this all leave us?" Masse asked, weary of the battle. Weary and scared. Brietling had something else. Something he wasn't saying…yet.

"Why, it leaves us at the status quo…or what should be the status quo. You will give Trixie and Honey appropriate grading and respect in your classes. That's all," Will said genially, with a slight smile.

"Sure, Dr. Brietling." The corners of his lips tilted up as Anna Ciccone walked through the door. _What was she, hiding in the hallway listening in?_

Luke Masse left, following behind the silent Anna. He realized he was being taken to the door in a more direct route as they walked down the long hallway. His gut started churning when he saw the brass plaque on the door: _Trixie Frayne, Investigator._

Anna held the door open for him, put a slender hand on his arm as he stepped off onto the stoop. He looked pointedly at her hand, turned and raised his miserable eyes to hers when she did not remove it.

"You know, Professor, Dr. McCormick and I were just discussing the pitfalls of teaching in college. You know, the battle cry of academians everywhere: _Publish or Perish_. Office politics, even for a tenured professor, can be very hard to, ah…overcome. Throw in some parental complaints, a few complaints from fellow professors and even the most dedicated professor can find himself in, shall we say, not so pleasant circumstances."

He searched her cool grey eyes, shrugged his shoulders. "Message understood and received, Mrs. Ciccone," he stated simply.

"Good." Her smile was feline and full of satisfaction as she silently closed the door in his face. He turned to face the street, half expecting to see he had inadvertently blundered into the fourth dimension and there were giant alien eyeballs with tentacles crawling up and down the block.

It was the same busy New York street, with cars, taxis and trucks jockeying for position on the asphalt, while busy people strode swiftly to their next errand, all accompanied by the never-ending congruence of the sounds of the City.

As he walked out into the street, hand raised to flag the next available transport, his busy mind was already figuring out how his student's unprecedented admittance into Locard could benefit _him_.

Yup. He could ride _this_ one for a couple more years.

A/N: Many thanks to my editors, Mylee and Cindy. They never hesitate to offer constructive criticism and praise.

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	23. Tabloid Trix Chapter 22

Tabloid Trix Chapter 22

Trixie and Jim waited patiently in the hallway while Honey's slender fingers fumbled around in her purse for her keys. She was muttering under her breath about slippery little damn keys and where were Tiny and Big John when you _really_ needed them to open a door? Finding the small tear in the lining, she scooped up the key that had wedged itself between the lining and the leather of the handbag with a triumphant grin spreading across her face. "Gotcha!"

She faced her brother and his wife, her best friend in the world. Her grin widened even more, until it threatened to spill off the sides of her face. Throwing exuberant arms around her sister-in-law, she hugged her tightly. "I am so proud of you, Trix! I can't even begin to tell you," she bubbled on.

Trixie held on, just as tightly and whispered back, "I'm so thankful you're my partner, Honey. Just so thankful. Nothing would have happened without you being there, too." She willed the tears that threatened to spill away. "How did you like everything? Were you comfortable in the room while you waited when the case was discussed?" Trixie broke the hug and searched Honey's face.

"It was wonderful, right Jim?" She didn't even await his confirming nod before pressing on. "The ceremony was just beautiful and you looked gorgeous. I know you didn't eat much, but the food was to die for."

Jim slung an arm around Trixie, his large hand playing in her curls. "After dinner, we were escorted with the other guests to a really nice room, right Honey? There were comfortable chairs scattered about and snacks everywhere."

"They had a copy of that new movie about the vampire girl and the human guy in love," Honey gushed. "It was great!"

Trixie's eyes twinkled. "Not too chick-flicky, James?" she teased her husband. He smiled at her, and nipped at her neck, whispering how much he wanted to nibble _her_ neck…and a few other tempting portions of her anatomy.

Honey just rolled her eyes at them. "Get a room, you guys!" she giggled. Her topaz eyes suddenly turned serious. "I really am proud of you, Trix. Maybe we can discuss the case tomorrow?" she whispered as she enveloped her sister-in-law in a tight hug.

"You bet, Honey. I have some interesting news about Professor Masse, too," Trixie whispered back.

Honey, not thinking, pulled her head back. "That bastard! What did he do now?" Her gentle expression darkened into something else entirely.

Jim, who had been idly watching the exchange between his wife and sister, was awestruck. He never heard that amount of venom in his sister's voice; never heard her use any swear word any harsher than hell or damn. "Who's Professor Masse and why is he a bastard?"

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

Jean-Paul Loriot was feeling the acid burn in his stomach. _Six women_. Six vibrant, intelligent women missing. Not _one_ clue. Missing posters were beginning to paper the city, and it was only time before the media made the connection.

And then, it would be chaos.

The only similarity between the women was their small stature, and the fact they were pretty. They disappeared from all over the city, without a trace. Not one bit of forensic evidence turned up. Not a wallet, shoe or piece of clothing. Nothing on their credit cards. Nothing on their cell phones.

Nothing.

He wanted to tell the friends and family the usual platitudes a police officer mouths when searching for a missing adult. _Maybe she just wanted to get away for a while. She's probably with friends and having a great time._ _She's probably with her boyfriend._

Instead, his gut told him that he would eventually be leading brave family members to the morgue to identify a body.

_If they were lucky._

Otherwise, he'd be requesting dental records and DNA samples.

_What was worse_, he mused, _having to look at the remains of a child, or not having enough remains to look at?_

The smiling faces of the six young women had begun to haunt him. It was time. Time to hold a press conference. Time to let the public in on this rash of disappearances. Ask for assistance on a tip line.

But in his gut, the one that burned so dreadfully, he knew.

_They had a monster loose in Montréal. _

**In Hunter Lavigne's basement…**

Livvy was chained to the concrete pillar. There was nothing in the great room, save for the evenly spaced pillars, a small eggcrate mattress, and the chemical toilet.

_And that weird doll_.

Jordan Jonsson, or whoever he was, brought the stool in several days ago. He set it against the wall, left the room and came back with it. It must have once been a pretty plaything, but it was burned, blackened and twisted. It seemed to Livvy that the one blue eye stared out at her with a fiendish, feverish glint.

He was crooning softly to the doll as he gently placed the scarred object on the stool. "See, Becky, I told you you'd like her." Then he'd cock his head as if listening to something only he could hear.

Sometimes, she'd swear she could hear another voice.

He was drugging her. She knew that. She was lethargic, barely enough energy to make it to the toilet alone, to drag herself onto the mattress. And he kept calling her _Becky._

She was too exhausted, too sick to scream and cry like she did the first day. Too exhausted to put up a fight. Her head was itching under the long blonde wig, and she stopped wondering where her clothes had gotten to.

Sometimes she'd get confused. Was she Livvy? Was she Becky? His voice was hypnotic, his hands gentle, stroking her soft skin while he tried to make her remember. When they met, the attraction, the physical release they enjoyed together. The fire.

Everything was getting more jumbled up. But she was pathetically grateful when the man brought her something to eat, something to drink, and when his hands soothed her to sleep, his voice murmuring in her ear.

**Upstairs…**

He flicked on the television, catching the tail end of a Special Report.

"…and if anyone has any information regarding the six missing women, they are urged to call the Tip Line at the number scrolling across the screen." The anchor's face dissolved into head shots of the six pretty women.

"God damn it." His voice whispered out. Not too loud so that Becky could hear. He flicked the television off, threw the remote on the sofa, and paced to the French Doors facing the river and his own personal playground on St. Helene's.

The transformation was taking too long. Becky never liked this one either, but he begged her to try, just once.

And for once, she agreed.

But the Becky downstairs, she never knew anything unless he told her first. She didn't remember the fire, didn't remember that first Christmas, didn't remember squat. While he was waiting for his Becky, waiting for the transformation, he had to go out and have fun, didn't he?

And now he wouldn't be able to, because of the damn cops. Now women would think twice about getting in a car with a charming stranger.

_Unless they were prostitutes._

**Concordia College, Montréal…**

"Next Wednesday several boats from the College will converge on the south beach at St Helene's to do an environmental assessment and clean-up," Professor Metisse was announcing to the class. "It's strictly voluntary but," he smiled at his students, "Good for some extra credit. Sign-up sheet is at the door."

**Back at Jim and Trixie's apartment…**

Jim was leaning casually against the doorframe of their bedroom, long legs crossed at the ankles, hands stuffed in his pockets and his lips curved up at the corners. Both his sister and wife had tried to skillfully divert his attention from the fact neither had answered his question about Professor Masse.

Which usually meant they had something to hide. His green gaze followed his wife as she buzzed about the room, taking off her heels and chucking them in the closet haphazardly. Her cherished locket was placed in the jewelry box, along with the gold Locard pin. She was trying to take Jim's measure with tiny glances she hoped he didn't notice.

Casting her restless eyes down, they lit upon the cake topper from their wedding, and she ran one slender finger down its cool surface. Jim, her supple woodsman, had confessed he bought it on a whim from the Hallmark Store. It was a tiny red-headed boy with an ill-fitting tuxedo and shoes holding on tightly to the hand of a little blonde girl with a wilted bouquet of daisies and her mother's wedding gown and shoes.

He bought it well before he even hoped they may get together, when he sent her that first card with the orchids on it. Jim, her logical, almost OCD kinda husband, had a romantic streak a mile wide.

And she loved him all the more for it.

_She needed to distract him._ And suddenly, she knew just how to do it. She moved to the end of the bed, where Jim had a really good view of her. He raised an eyebrow in an unspoken challenge.

_Bring it on, Trix._

"I'm glad you and Honey had a good time tonight, Jim," she said. As she spoke, her right hand moved inside the scooped neckline of the little black dress. He watched in fascination as a bra strap slid partway down her arm.

"How was the first case you sat in on?" His eyes were riveted to that black strap on her fair skin.

She took her right hand out of the dress, moved the bra strap slowly down her arm and over her wrist. "It was sad; a murdered child." Back inside her dress, his smoky gaze followed the strap she was now pulling back up from inside the dress. It disappeared into the armhole.

Her fingers twisted in the front. _What was she up to?_ "Um, did Locard solve it?" The other bra strap slid down her arm, and she casually reached for it, pulling the entire bra through the armhole and tossing it on the chest at the end of the bed.

She took a long leisurely look at him before she answered. He was starting to squirm. Trixie went on the offensive. "No, but a lot of suggestions were provided to the local authorities."

She was close enough to him so he could see the outline of her nipples against the smooth fabric, smell the sunshiny scent he always associated with her. "Um, that's wonderful, Trix." His voice was deeper. He couldn't keep his eyes off her unfettered breasts. He knew they were there, like buried treasure.

Her hands slithered down the dress to her hips, as she moved slowly, sensually side to side, until her panties obeyed the law of gravity and met the floor with a whisper of sound. She stepped out of them, picked them up, looked at them and threw them over with the bra. A quick peek at Jim's face showed the slight flush highlighting those high cheekbones and the tiny beads of perspiration dotting his forehead.

_Yup. She was distracting him, all right._

Jim was being ensnared in the erotic web that Trixie was weaving. His skin felt hot; his pants much too tight. He'd seen her naked plenty of times, why was the knowledge that she was naked under that dress making him crazy with lust? She sashayed over to him, swinging her hips in a slow, seductive sway and turned her back to him.

"Help me with the zipper, Jim." Her voice was low, throaty. She lifted the mass of yellow curls off the back of her neck.

His large hands trembled as he reached for the zipper and began to slide it down her back, exposing all that creamy, delicious, soft skin. He could not keep his lips from following that line of exposed skin.

Gone were any thoughts of Professor Masse, school, Locard or even the screaming fans that seemed to pop up everywhere lately. When the dress pooled at her feet, he was lost. As he pulled her to their bed, frantic, his lips everywhere_, her_ lips curved in a secret smile against the sensitive skin of his neck.

**At Kaitlin's and Aidan's…**

"Where's Aidan tonight, babe?" Dan was snuggled on the couch, his arm around Kaitlin, pressing her tightly against his side. He needed this after _OMG!_'snewest issue hit the streets.

Uncle Bill had called, his red-headed temper ignited. He was ready to ride Jupe all the way to the City and tear Paul Trent limb from limb. Putting his own disgust with the article on the back burner, Dan tried to calm his uncle down – or at least prevent him from committing murder, no matter how well deserved.

After the call ended, Dan sat down and opened up the magazine. There he was, in all his Cowhands glory. After trying so hard to escape the past, it came right back up to bite him in the ass.

_Again._

As he stared at the picture, he began to notice some inconsistencies. The clothing was of a style popular years ago, when he was a gang member – baggy jeans, sagged to the max; a huge tee shirt; bandana.

When he was in the gang, he wore his hair longer, in a short, stubby, greasy ponytail. He shaved every third or fourth day, so the three hairs he had on his chin would give him that mean, unshaven look.

The face that was pasted on the 15 year-old body in the picture was his face today: leaner, short crisp black hair, and a real beard that had to be shaved _every_ day.

_The bastards put a current photograph of his head on an old photograph from his teen years. _Remembering what Mr. Ramsey said about altered photographs, he sent a brief text message to Matt Wheeler, alerting him to the change.

"…his foot in the dating pool once again," Kaitlin was saying, leaning her head back against him.

Dan gave Kait a rueful look. "Sorry. I just kind of zoned out for a second there. What's Aidan doing?"

She gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. "I said, Mr. Mangan, that Aidan is out dipping his big toe into the dating pool once again."

Dan shut his eyes "Oh, god, no," he moaned. He shifted around slightly, loosening his hold so he could look into Kaitlin's dancing eyes. "Do you think he picked a _normal_ one this time?"

She had to giggle. "I hope so. Poor Aidan!" She began ticking his dating attempts off on her fingers. "First there was the one enamored with Poe, and then there was the girl who would only eat white food. And we can't forget the one who brought her _mother_ along on the date!" She leaned over and staged whispered to Dan, "I think Aidan liked the mom better!" before dissolving into laughter.

"What about the one who thought Starbucks was trying to take over world with caramel macchiatos?"

"Starbucks _is_ taking over the world, one caramel macchiato at a time," Kaitlin said dryly.

Dan rubbed a gentle finger along her cheekbone and laughed. "You're a silly girl. _Everybody_ knows it's mocha cappuccinos that will ensure world domination." His chocolate eyes twinkled at her.

His hand slid down her shoulder, down her arm, and his eyes darkened as he leaned in close.

His lips were a breath away from hers when they heard the snick of the locks on the door, followed by the slamming of same, accompanied by muttered curses.

What ever could they do, except dissolve in a wave of laughter, and wait for a report on the latest dating debacle.

**At Paul Trent's Apartment…**

Paul Trent sat on his sagging bed, the red neon sign still blinking its broken message. He watched as the red washed across the mock-up of the next issue of _OMG!._ Yeah, the current issue was flying off the shelves; Nanci was thrilled; but there was always the deadline of the next issue looming over them.

It was a full head shot of Trixie Belden Frayne. She was wearing some sort of blue chiffon scarf in her hair, and those golden curls tumbled down her shoulders and back. Her beautiful long neck and creamy white shoulders were exposed, and her gorgeous blue eyes and full lips looked a bit pensive.

It was simply, a fabulously wonderful picture of a beautiful woman. The headline read, as they predicted so many weeks ago, "_Jim Frayne's Child Bride!"_

He ran a nicotine-stained finger down one of those curls, and then flicked her nose. "Revenge is sweet, Mrs. Frayne. Like your brother once told me. _Saccharine sweet._" He couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up and escaped into the fetid room.

A/N: A special thanks to my editors, Mylee and Cindy, who put up with me and all my neurotic rambling!

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	24. Tabloid Trix Chapter 23

Tabloid Trix Chapter 23

Jim was leaned over the breakfast table, a mug of coffee in one hand and a two-day old copy of the _Sleepyside Sun_ in the other. However, those amazing emerald eyes were following his petite wife as she dumped some Kashi in a bowl and called it breakfast.

Of _course_ he was biding his time. She may been able to misdirect his attention from pursuing the Professor Masse question, but he hadn't forgotten it. By the way she was swinging her hips and singing and bouncing those curls in just the way he liked, he suspected she forgot _all_ about it.

Or was secretly congratulating herself over her successful escape from some uncomfortable questions.

She brought her bowl and what passed for coffee in her world to the table and slid in next to him. "Any interesting news?" she asked, while sprinkling copious amounts of sugar on the cereal.

"Mr. Lytell applied for a permit to remodel his store," Jim related, trying to bite his tongue, but his brain overruled his common sense. "Trix, it's not health food if you have to add tons of sugar to it," he admonished her.

She gave him a dark glance and deigned not to respond to his last comment. "Mr. Lytell remodeling? I didn't think he made enough money to pay his taxes, never mind remodel," she remarked in a casual voice.

Jim leaned one elbow on the table and propped his head up with his hand. "He does quite a business with lottery tickets and such. I know Ia…I mean Aidan's mother is keeping him hopping. He was grumbling to Miss Trask the other day about it."

"Gleeps, Jim, everyone always remarked about how slow we were getting together. Mr. Lytell's been dating her for years! He should man up already."

Jim snorted. "Fat lot you know, Mrs. Detective. She's quite the lady about town now. She's also dating Chief Molinson."

Trixie's blue eyes widened. "Really? Hmmm. A grumpy old shop keeper or an irascible cop? Not much choice there," she giggled.

He leaned back, made a show of folding the _Sun_ just right, and intentionally hooded his eyes. "So, tell me all about Professor Masse."

**Montréal, St. Laurent Blvd.**

Cherri sank down on the mattress in the seedy little room, wiping the blood from her nose. It was a measure of how angry Michél was with her. He usually never hit her in the face, where it showed to the johns. Most of them were nice middle-and-upper class men who recoiled at the sight of a battered face. It was bad for business.

But when Michél discovered Sérine didn't show for the twosome he booked, and the john cancelled, he got pretty damn angry. It wasn't often the street hookers got a good paying gig like that. And he became even more angry when Cherri told him, truthfully, she hadn't seen Sérine all day; in fact, not since the night before last when arranged to meet at the dive the john specified.

Cherri ran the cold water, put a rag under and dampened it, and applied it to her face. Tonight, and the next several nights, were not going to be good to her. She'd be lucky to make enough for her next fix.

Taking out the glassine envelope with the white powder inside, she prepared herself for the warm, dreamlike feeling she craved so desperately, As she pulled the band tightly around her arm, she vowed to kick Sérine's ass next time she saw her.

**At the boys' apartment…**

"I had an interesting discussion with Hulk the other day." Brian was poaching a couple of eggs and making toast while Mart was just sitting at the kitchen table looking sleepy.

After a huge, jaw-popping yawn, some requisite male-type scratching, Mart raised both sandy brows. "What, me-Hulk, you-Brian?"

Brian frowned. "No, lamebrain. He's actually a very erudite guy for someone who looks like they could break a Mack truck in half." He paused, grabbing the hot toast and switching it from hand to hand. "Ow. Ouch. He gave me some good advice about relationships."

Mart, who had just taken a large gulp of orange juice, expelled a large portion of it through his nose and onto the table and floor as he began to choke. Brian thumped his back helpfully. "I hope you don't need mouth to mouth resuscitation."

Mart pinched the nostrils of his now-burning nose, still coughing a bit, and walked over to the sink for the sponge. As he cleaned up the mess he just made, he turned to Brian and whispered in the most incredulous voice. "You. Asked. Advice. Of. The. Human. Tree. Trunk." He rose from the floor and lightly tapped Brian on the side of the head. "Nope. Not hollow."

"Knock it off, lamebrain. And now you'll have to throw that sponge away since you mopped up the floor with it," he sneered.

"Nah. Five second rule." Mart danced away from Brian's grasp, and both brothers struggled for a moment before Brian won out and sent the sponge spinning into the garbage pail. "Seriously, Bri? You asked Hulk for advice?"

He ducked his dark head, began slathering some of Moms' homemade apple butter on his now-cold toast. "I didn't exactly ask him. More like he volunteered."

Mart sat across from his brother, immensely interested in how the two would have gotten on the subject of relationships anyway. All he had to do was quirk one amused, bright blue eye at Brian.

"Jim and I…and Hulk, went to Java City. I was trying to get Jim to suss the girls out about their recent ah, totally full schedules. Hulk overheard the conversation and just like that, he skootched over."

Mart shrugged his shoulders, extended his arms palm up. "And?"

"And he made some really good points. Like his ex-girlfriend was always dragging him to jewelry stores to look at engagement rings. And leaving bridal magazines all over the house, stuff like that. He asked if Honey or Di did that. I don't know about Di, but Honey never did any of that stuff."

"Neither did Di," Mart interjected. "She wouldn't be so devious."

"So he asked me how I knew she was pressuring me for a ring, and I said she kept talking about Jim and Trix." He paused for breath, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. "And seeing it from his view, it did seem kind of foolish. I mean, we _never_ talked about it with them." Looking even guiltier, he said, "And…the last couple of dates were more like ummmm…wham, bam thank you ma'am."

Mart frowned into his cup. "I don't know, Brian…"

"You know Honey and I had an argument outside Java City," he told a shocked Mart. _Brian? His cooler-headed older brother?_

"We had it because I was belligerent to her study date, a guy. We sort of made up and I suggested we go back to the apartment, because no-one was home. What she said to me sort of stuck in my craw," Brian confessed.

"What did she say?"

"She said, 'we're so much more than _that_, Brian.' She was so sad." He looked over at his brother. "So maybe Hulk wasn't so far off the mark."

Mart leaned his elbows on the table, put one hand on top of the other, and rested his chin. "So what you're implying is," he huffed out a breath, "Is that _we're_ at fault." He turned this thought around in his brain for a few moments.

"Looking at it objectively, I think we umm, may have jumped to conclusions. Just what we always used to accuse Trixie of." Brian voice was contrite. "Honey never mentioned marriage or engagements or even a ring to me." His coal-black eyes widened. "Maybe she doesn't _want_ to marry me!" Just the thought left him thunderstruck.

Mart shot Brian a very sour look. "Neither has Di," he said glumly. "I guess I always just assumed we'd all be together…"

Brian's bark of not-quite-laughter burst out of him. "So, we worked ourselves into a tizzy about our relationships and what we thought the girls thought and they probably aren't thinking that at all. Isn't _that_ a pisser?"

**Back at Jim and Trixie's…**

Jim's lips curled up with a sarcastic amusement at Trixie's shock. Her blue eyes widened as her spoon clattered to the table.

"Jim, it's nothing. Really." She began drawing small circles on his forearm with her index finger. His long, strong, slender fingers stilled hers by simply grasping them tightly. She wasn't the only tenacious one in this relationship.

"Trix. It's something. Really." He mimicked her. "My sister does not lightly call someone a bastard. And you're not the only one with observational skills, Mrs. Frayne. How many times have I run across you and Honey whispering something and as soon as I walk into the room, you two clam up."

The rose color washed across her cheeks. "Jim, I don't…_we_ don't need you to fight our battles for us." She only realized after the words spilled out of her that she confirmed his suspicions that something was awry.

Jim reached up a hand, tugged on his curl. "No secrets, Trix." God, he loved to disconcert her. It wasn't often he could catch his detective napping, so to speak.

She batted his hand away, irritated, and closed her expressive eyes. "Yeah. No secrets." She opened them up again. "If I would have known there were all these arcane marriage rules, I would have thought twice when I said yes," she complained.

Jim just rolled his fine emerald eyes, and gave her the patented I-can-sit-here-all-day-and-wait face.

"Okay. …I told you before I had one professor who was a pill," she began her slow recitation. "Professor Masse."

"Baby, you'll have more than one professor who you won't necessarily like," Jim began.

"It's not that, Jim. Neither Honey or I had any sort of feelings one way or the other at the beginning. But from the very first class, he seemed to make it his, I don't know, mission to make Honey and me as uncomfortable as possible." She trailed off. Jim's eyes were darkening in response to her words.

"What do you mean, uncomfortable? He didn't, uh, _try _anything with either of you, did he?" His voice snapped out.

"Try anything?" She was confused. "What would he try?"

Geez she could be naïve at times. "He didn't uh, make a pass at you or my sister, did he?" Jim's fists clenched at his side.

"Oh god, Jim, no, nothing like that!" She dropped her eyes to the table, became fascinated with the pattern in the tabletop. "I guess he must have read our bios or something, because he just thought we were two little rich girls playing at being detectives." She didn't look up, didn't see the color suffusing his face and neck.

"And how bad did it get for you and Honey, Trixie?" he gritted out through clenched teeth.

She looked up, saw the famous Frayne temper turning his eyes into boiling emerald seas. Trixie reached out, touched his face gently. "See, Jim? This is precisely why I didn't tell you. You're getting all worked up."

"How bad, Trix?"

She pressed her lips together. _No secrets._ "Pretty bad. We had words. Professor Masse and I, I mean. He was pretty mean to Honey and I saw red."

"Words? You had an argument with your Professor?" Jim felt like banging his head off the table. It must have been pretty bad for Trixie to react like that.

"It's kind of a moot point now," Trixie shrugged. "I think Will and Stephen may have set the Professor straight."

"You told Will and Stephen at Locard and you didn't confide in me?" Jim could not keep the hurt out of his voice. _After all,_ he reasoned, _I'm only her _husband.

She rolled her sapphire eyes at him. "No, you big jerk. I didn't tell them." She ran a hand through her tumbled curls, messing them up more. "Masse saw my Locard pin. Instead of coming to me and asking about it, like any normal human being would, he contacted Locard to tell them of a student misusing a pin. Will and Stephen invited him down to the office to discuss it." A sly smile spread over her face. "Gleeps, was he ever surprised when Will assigned me to work with him."

Jim could not resist touching those tousled curls. "So you think they smoothed over everything? You don't think he is going to bother you?" He played with the ends of her hair, searching her eyes with his.

"No, I don't. I don't think they smoothed over everything, but I do think they let him know what an ass he is. Anna told me Masse was closeted with them a good fifteen to thirty minutes after I was dismissed."

Jim's large hand cupped her cheek, marveling at the soft skin he found there. "God, Trix. Here I thought it was going to be fabulous, all of us in the same city, you and me married. Instead we have this stupid magazine thing, you and Honey are having problems with a professor and Mart and Brian are just miserable."

"We'll get through this Jim. Together." She covered his hand with hers. "Just don't go putting out any contracts on idiotic professors or sleazy writers."

**Across town, in the studios of LBC…**

Ryan Hanson was looking at the two magazines the hostess of _In the Know_ dumped on his desk. He was familiar with the gossip rag; knew they were in financial trouble. "So what do you want me to do with these, Cilla? Are the restrooms out of toilet tissue again?" He mouth quirked up on one side, as it usually did when he was amused.

Cilla Cecere leaned over the producer's desk, her pretty face animated. "_Look_ at these, Ryan. Just take a gander at the hot guy on the cover? Do you have any idea who he is?" Since he didn't read the article, she knew full well he did not.

"No, I don't and I suppose you're going to enlighten me," he said, a sarcastic lilt to his voice.

Pointing to Jim, she said smugly, "_He's_ the son of Matthew Wheeler. Pointing to the other cover, she continued. "_She's_ Matthew Wheeler's daughter and the _other_ woman is the oldest daughter of Edward Lynch." Cilla was pleased to note Ryan began to thumb through the magazines with a bit more enthusiasm.

"Matt Wheeler and Ed Lynch? Wow." The two names were familiar to him; everyone in the business world knew about the two men. Not much was known about their families, however. The two billionaires kept a very low personal profile. In fact, almost non-existent.

"I think _OMG! _is onto something here. I mean, these issues have been flying off the stands. Wouldn't it be nice to have a little something about them on our show? Something new, and different and hot?" she said, a sly look in her eyes.

"We all know the stuff this magazine puts out is hashed over drek," Ryan countered.

"I looked a bit into this. It appears the reporter with the byline is very familiar with these kids. I think a little more investigation is in order. After all," she concluded, "_Everyone_ wants to know how the mega-rich _really_ live. And when they're as hot as this bunch…" she trailed off.

"It'll translate to good ratings." He stared down at the pictures again, made a quick decision. "Okay Cilla. Let's see what we can dig up on," he paused, "The Bob-Whites of the Glen."

**Back at Jim and Trixie's…**

Wanting to change the subject, Trixie demanded, "Aren't you going to ask what happened at the Locard meeting yesterday after you and Honey left?"

"Nope. But I'll listen if you want to tell me," Jim said with a straight face. In truth, he was dying to ask her, but wanted her to offer first.

"Well, you know the case is about a little three-year-old missing boy who was murdered." Trixie's voice was brusque. "His mother claimed she was with him in the back yard, playing, and she ran in to answer the phone. When she returned to the yard. The gate was swinging and the child was nowhere to be found. He was found, dead, a few days later."

"A child, Trix. That must have been difficult for you." He searched her clear blue eyes, now shadowed.

"It…it was upsetting to look at the crime scene photos." She steeled herself when she opened the images. It was not pleasant to look at the ravages of decomposition. In fact, her stomach had given a lurch and she almost, almost lost it. "Poor little guy." Her eyes were far away.

"Anyway," she coughed, "He was covered up with a brand new blanket with smiling rubber duckies printed on it. The COD was determined to be a single blow to the head."

"COD?"

"Cause of death. The uh, dump site was about ten miles from the house. The detectives from North Dakota that presented the case were very good, but they had little experience of a child homicide," she explained. "It's a small town, and stuff like that just doesn't happen there, they said."

"Except it did. So what happened after they presented the case?"

"There was a question and answer period. Did they check the mom's story out, get phone records. Things like that. Then Will told them that Scott – that's the victim – was killed by someone he knew."

"How does he figure that?" Despite the sad subject, Jim was really very interested in the society that was enmeshing his wife.

"The blanket. Scott wasn't displayed and there was no, uh, molestation. Serial killers and psychopaths simply discard their victims like garbage. To them, the victims are objects. The fact that a new, child's blanket was placed over Scott's body shows that the killer was probably familiar and felt remorse over what happened."

"What about the blanket? Did the detectives pursue that?"

Trixie smiled at him. "Are you sure you want to go for a law and business degree and not open Frayne, Frayne & Wheeler? You're very observant, Mr. Frayne." She paused, took a drink of her cold coffee. "Yeah, they did. There was no trace evidence on it. They contacted the manufacturer and it was a design specifically made for Wal-Mart. Thousands of them were sold, all over the country and through mail order. Will, however, made a very strong suggestion that I think was brilliant." Her sapphire eyes glowed. "He suggested that the detectives review store receipts for the day of the abduction, and maybe the day before. They might be able to match store security footage with the time the blanket was sold, if it was sold in the area."

"And therefore, maybe catch whoever did this, or at least have a person of interest." He narrowed his green gaze at her. "Who do you think did it, Trix?"

"Suspicion right now is centering on the mom, but they can't prove anything. Scott's dad was at work, and they have to punch in and out, so he's alibied. I don't know yet. I don't want to rush into narrowing down the suspects to one without having all the details."

Jim thought back to some of their old cases, when Trixie did leap before she looked. It was encouraging to hear the caution in her voice. "I'm sure Locard will help decipher the clues and catch the bastard who did this."

**Later that day, at Phil Ramsay's office…**

Nanci D'Rue had taken pains to power-dress for this meeting at the office of the famed attorney. The suit was deep blue, tailored to perfection with a short, tight skirt. She paired it with blue pumps and a cream camisole. Chunky gold earrings twinkled at her ears, and a knock-off Rolex graced her wrist.

She knew who Ramsay was, would have bet her mother that she knew exactly why he wanted to see her. She wasn't going to back down from the stories about the Bob-Whites. Not at all, not when the magazine itself was selling out at the newsstands and the website was generating more than a million hits a day. Paul Trent had brought her the goose that was laying the golden foundation for her leap to the legitimate press.

She was directed by the receptionist to the 11th floor. When she exited the elevator, pressing one hand to her fluttering stomach, it was directly into Phil Ramsay's firm. Another desk, another receptionist. "If you'll just wait a minute, Ms. D'Rue," the receptionist said, as she adroitly answered and transferred call, and pressed a button. "Micah? Ms. D'Rue's here for Mr. Ramsay."

After Micah (who surprisingly was a female) took her to the small conference room and relieved her of her briefcase, she had the opportunity to survey her plush surroundings. Deep, multicolored carpet; real burled wood conference table; an ornate mirror and several paintings scattered about. A small vase of fresh flowers graced the table, and the chairs were padded and very comfortable.

Phil Ramsay came bustling in, nodded to her. "Ms. D'Rue," he said, looking about. "Are we still waiting for your counsel?" as he shook her rather limp hand.

Nanci waved an airy hand. "Oh, no Mr. Ramsay. I didn't think I would need him. And please, call me Nanci." She waited a beat, waited for the reciprocation of _Phil_. Her practiced smile faltered a bit when it wasn't forthcoming.

"Just so that you are aware, these proceedings are being taped." He watched as her eyebrows rose. _Gotcha there_, he smiled to himself. The briefcase she had so blithely tried to place on the table had a recording device in there also. As soon as she entered the room, the sensor in the doorway gave a discreet beep.

"Fine. I have nothing to hide."

"You are the Editor-in-Chief of _OMG!_, a weekly uh, gossip publication, is that correct?"

"Yes, I am."

"I represent Mr. Matthew Wheeler and his family," Phil stated for the record. "You are aware of who Mr. Wheeler is, right?"

"Yes, I am fully aware of who Matt Wheeler and Ed Lynch are. And to cut to the chase, _Mr._ _Ramsay_, my magazine is publishing a series of articles about the children of such families."

"Without the cooperation of either family, their children or their friends."

"Ah, freedom of the press, Mr. Ramsay." She leaned back in her chair, relaxed. "Covered by the guarantees of the Constitution of these United States."

"Yes, there are guarantees regarding freedom of the press. It's what makes our country great," he agreed, on an amiable note. "However," he continued, his voice becoming stern and sure, "The guarantees do not extend to printing lies and half-truths. Your publication must have received our cease and desist letter."

The light of battle entered her eyes. "Why no. we did not," she lied with a composed face. The certified letter had come some days ago.

Phil looked down at the papers in front of him. "According to our records, a Tamara King signed for the certified letter."

Nanci snorted daintily. "Tamara King? I _think_ she was a temp. She didn't give me a certified letter." Their regular receptionist had quit some time ago, and they were using temps in her place. "She worked at the office a few hours, went to lunch and never came back."

"Here's a copy." Phil expected the tactic. He slid over the copy of the letter, making sure he didn't come into contact with her fingers. He couldn't help but think if he did touch them, they would be as slimy as a slug. "It requests that your publication cease and desist from publishing any more um…articles about my clients or their families."

She flicked her eyes over the piece of paper, dismissed it. "I must repeat myself, Mr. Ramsay. Freedom of the press."

"And I must warn you, Ms. D'Rue. Neither my clients nor their children wish to have any more of their private lives splashed across your magazine, filled with innuendo. We both know Paul Trent has a vendetta against them. We will tie you up in court for a very long time, drain your resources. And, by the way, you are hereby put on notice that we will have a court date for the obviously photoshopped picture of Daniel Mangan in your latest issue." Phil handed her the summons and complaint.

"Freed…" she began, between clenched teeth.

"Does not extend to creating pictures that can substantially harm someone. By manipulating an old photograph of Mr. Mangan with a current photograph of his face, your magazine, and I use the word lightly, created an innuendo that Mr. Mangan is still connected to a gang. We both know Mr. Mangan is pursuing a degree at John Jay in criminal justice. By bringing up information that has been sealed and expunged – and is part of a juvenile record to boot, your magazine is harming Mr. Mangan's ability to obtain employment in the law enforcement field."

"So we'll print a retraction." Nanci smiled at Phil. "No harm done," she shrugged.

"Don't for one minute think you will be printing a retraction in tiny print next to an ad for lonely males seeking companionship," Phil sneered. "I fully intend to force your rag to own up to all the lies." It was his turn to smile, that deadly, sharky smile that some attorneys perfected. "I think this little interview has been most productive, Ms. D'Rue. Thank you for your time and attention. Micah has your briefcase. The recording device is still inside," he added, as a parting shot. Phil gathered up his papers and left the room.

She stood up, her face flushed and furious. Just who the hell did Phil Ramsay think he was? As soon as she got out of the building, she'd place a call to her attorneys. _Cease and desist, huh? _ Well, she'd show Matt Wheeler, Ed Lynch and their fancy attorneys who had the upper hand.

She was still seething when she flagged down the taxi. She was calling the publisher. They were real happy with her right now. She was sure she could talk them into releasing the Trixie issue earlier. She just wouldn't inform them of the legal woes right now, she decided as she barked the address to the driver. Besides, it all came down to copies sold and internet hits.

And right now, _OMG!_ was the hottest thing on the market.

**Meanwhile, at Java City…**

Honey was sitting at the table in the corner, the most private one if any in the busy coffee shop could be termed private. Tiny was nearby, scouting the patrons for any fans who wanted to approach the Wheeler heiress.

Her fine topaz eyes were fixed on Brian, approaching their table with the lattes. He called her earlier in the day, asked her in a quiet voice to meet him there. They had things to _discuss_.

_He really is so beautiful_, she mused, with his coal black eyes, dark hair and astonishing body. The odd child out in a family full of blondes, but she wouldn't have him any other way. Peter Belden was quite a handsome man, and she supposed Brian would resemble him more closely as he aged.

But those were only the superficial things. She loved his caring, his selflessness, and his astute brain. She just loved _him_, all of him, even the OCD parts that drove her crazy at times. She searched his solemn face, and a slight shudder traversed her spine. For the first time, the unsettling thought that he might want to break up with her whispered its way into her consciousness.

Brian sat, handing Honey her drink, and at the same time hooking a foot under the chair so he could sit. They both sat, silent, each watching the other carefully.

"Honey, I…" Brian began.

"Brian, I…" They both spoke at the same time, shared a slightly stilted smile.

Brian groaned inwardly. This was going to be a lot harder than he expected. "Honey, I need to apologize." He reached out, covered the hand she had resting on the tabletop with his own. Her hand was chilled, and he rubbed it softly. "I've been a jerk."

"You have," she agreed. "But do you know what you were being a jerk about?" She wanted him to know, to figure it out.

He removed his hand from hers, scrubbed at his face. "Believe or not, yeah." Brian grimaced. "After my sister married your brother, and all you talked about was the wedding, I kind of thought that you wanted to do that, too. Get married right away."

"I never said that to you, Brian."

"I know, I know. It's just that I began to feel pressured and I didn't like it. So I reduced our relationship to a physical one, not that you deserve just that. I love you, Honey, I do. And someday, I want to get married, to you. Just not now. I should have talked to you about how I was feeling, instead of hurting you."

Her eyes were big, wet topazes in her pale face. "I love you too, Brian. Maybe if we had talked, instead of jumping to conclusions, we would have found out we have the same dreams and goals." She looked away, chose her next words carefully. "Someday, I want to get married and have a family. _Someday_. It…it may be right for Jim and Trixie to marry, to become a family now. In fact, I _know_ it is. My brother has been in love with your sister since we woke him up in the old mansion at Ten Acres. She feels the same way. It's just perfectly perfect for them. But not for me, not right now."

"Honey, I…"

She held up a slender hand. "You _did_ hurt me, Brian. You shut me out, made me feel like…like I was only good enough for a quick roll in bed." She colored at the words. "Because if that's all you wanted, well, you could have hired somebody for that."

"It's my fault, Honey, please don't cry," he begged, as one tear escaped and slid silently down her cheek, only to be wiped away by his large hand. "We're so much more than just that, like you told me before. I just didn't hear you. I'm hearing you now. Let me prove it to you. I love you, Honey."

His hand was resting lightly on her cheek, and she covered it with her own. "I love you, Brian. But we have some work to do to repair our relationship. Especially communicating."

"We'll work it out," he said confidently. "There's nothing we can't do, together." He leaned over the table, gave her the lightest of kisses. "And for now, that includes just dating."

She smiled at him, lips still tingling from his touch. "And communicating," she added, lacing her fingers with his.

As they sat there in comfortable silence, a new worry sprung up in Brian's head. She said she wanted to get married someday, just like he did. But she didn't add the most important words: to him.


	25. Tabloid Trix Chapter 24

Tabloid Trix Chapter 24

The truck rumbled past the newsstand in Montréal, heaving out the bundles of magazines and today's newspapers. The man throwing out the bundles glanced again at the pretty blonde girl on the cover. She certainly was a looker. He glanced at the sun coming up over the city, before the hustle and bustle of another working day commenced, and watched the proprietor cut the wire on the bundles he just delivered as the truck pulled away.

The newsstand owner separated the material into French and English, and removed the old to make way for the new. His gnarled fingers worked swiftly, because rush hour would be here before you knew it, and the impatient business men and women would be expecting immediate service.

The gossip magazine had a pretty blonde girl on the cover. A couple of weeks ago, he couldn't give it away. Now it sold as soon as it hit the stands. He even increased his order. His restless fingers picked up a copy, brought it a bit closer to, and then a bit farther from his face. _Playing the trombone_, his dad used to call it, he chuckled to himself. There was a smaller picture of that red-headed guy, a copy of the construction-worker cover a couple of weeks ago, the one all the ladies sighed over.

One thing he could say was the magazine certainly knew how to catch the eye! Hot pink headlines blasted across it. _**Jim Frayne's Child Bride! **_ Then smaller, just-as-hot pink bullets on the bottom of the page: _**Who is the Mystery Blonde? Is She Woman Enough for Jim? Was It an Arranged Marriage? SPECIAL EDITION!**_

The man began stacking the newest edition of _OMG!_ right there in front, where everyone could see it. He expected a banner day.

**Later on that day, in various parts of the United States…**

Peter Belden was wrestling with good business sense versus compassion for one's fellow man. It was really tough to be a bank president in these unsettled times. Good business sense told him to foreclose on the young family's home. They were months behind in their mortgage payments. It just made sense for the bank to take the home and perhaps turn it around.

On the other hand, where would they go? The woman just had a baby not too long ago. The man lost his job at the pharmaceutical corporation when it restructured. They just plunged all their savings into purchasing the tiny but lovely home. They were making small but frequent payments on the house. Peter knew it was whenever the man received his unemployment check.

In the end, compassion won out and a good bit of business sense. Another empty house on the bank's rolls would not accomplish much, especially since credit was still so tight. They were still a smallish bank, and he still had the authority to make a decision like this one. Of course, he thought with a sarcastic tilt, it helps when the board members were personal friends and billionaires to boot. He made a mental note to talk to Ed and Matt about the young man. Maybe one of them would have a place for him in one of their various enterprises.

Dawn Boyd knocked once and strode into the room, her face alight with outrage. She clutched something in her hand, and Peter glanced at his normally even-tempered secretary in surprise.

"Mr. Belden! Look at this!" She threw the magazine onto his desk with a loud sniff. "These people should be shot."

He picked up the crumpled periodical, and his coal-black eyes went wide with shock. "I need to call Helen," his voice was hoarse, thick, before the fire lit in his eyes.

Dawn shuddered at the almost feral expression on his handsome face. _Paul Trent better start worrying now._

Frank Lytell looked at the copies of that despicable rag that graced his battered old counter. Multiple photographs of that minx, Trixie Belden…no, Frayne, stared back at him with those vivid blue eyes.

She may have driven him crazy at times, but his thin lips, normally turned down at the corners, tilted up as a flood of memories washed over him. A tiny toddler, crashing into one of the displays and that pretty young Helen Belden apologizing profusely; a curly-haired talking-a-mile-a-minute elementary school youngster, knocking over a display of cans it took him _all_ morning to create; a young teenager on the cusp of great beauty, forcing him to take a diamond as collateral for her beloved brother.

He shook his head, and made his decision. _OMG!_ was filed right there, in the recyclables. He'd be damned if some flaky Hollywood magazine hurt _his_ people. Even if one of his people was that mischievous Trixie Frayne.

Alicia Johnson watched the face of the young girl in study hall. The students were supposed to be reading whatever it was the teacher assigned to them for in-school detention. The soft giggles and wide-eyed look told Miss Johnson that the girl was more than likely not perusing Shakespeare or reading some dry account regarding the discovery of the North Pole. Her enraptured student never even heard the soft approach of the detention monitor.

"Hand it over, Ms. Ross." Alicia stood there with her hand extended and her stern teacher face on. "You should know better than this."

The girl sighed loudly, but knew enough not to engage Ms. Johnson in a debate. No-one _ever_ bested Ms. Johnson. She flipped the magazine closed and reluctantly placed it in the teacher's hand.

Alicia nodded once and winked at the girl, walking back to her desk as she closed the magazine and glanced idly at the cover. Her shocked gasp was heard by the boy in the first desk, and he glanced up to see the unflappable Ms. Johnson suffuse with the most vibrant red he had ever seen, as the magazine slid out of her hands. She gripped the desk tightly, knuckles white, and for a moment he thought she was going to pass out. He jumped up, picked up the magazine and asked, "Are you all right? Ms. Johnson?" He looked at the cover of the magazine, saw nothing there except a gorgeous blonde who…vaguely resembled her.

"I'm okay, Shawn," she replied, her voice breathy and for once forgetting the use of an honorific and surname. "I…I just need a breath of air. Keep an eye on the class for a minute, will you?" Alicia walked out of the class and into the hallway, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket at the same time. She urgently needed to call her sister.

Peter Kimball walked into the NEXCOM at Annapolis. He desperately needed to stock up on a couple of staples – Good 'n Plenty and Nutella. It was his secret vice, dipping the pink and white candy coated licorice bits into the hazelnut and chocolate spread. It sounded disgusting, probably was, but didn't people eat fried butter sticks? Now, _that _was disgusting in his opinion. He picked up his supplies, and a couple other innocuous items, and glanced around the store. It wouldn't do to have any of his mates see his purchases. He'd never live it down.

As he approached the checkout, his attention was caught by a magazine cover with a picture of a pretty, curly-haired blonde girl that looked remarkably like…_Trixie_?

Frowning, he added the magazine to his purchases, not caring who saw him buy it now. A couple of phone calls would definitely be in order.

Monty Wilson brought the mail in. There was a bundle of bills, as usual; a few envelopes containing checks for people who did not trust their reservations to the internet, and a bunch of glossy magazines to place on the low table in the lobby for the reading pleasure of the guests.

He plopped the envelopes on the registration counter and brought the magazines over to the rustic table, setting them out in a fan-like manner, until his attention was caught by the curly-haired blonde.

The remaining magazines slid from his fingers as he gazed at the pretty picture of the little girl whose quick thinking saved his sister and her family from an imposter, and his ranch from a disastrous Christmas season.

_What the hell was going on here?_

Hallie Belden threw the magazine across the room in the small studio apartment she was renting in a not-so-good part of LA. Trust her damn cousin Trixie to get her picture splashed on the cover of a gossip magazine from coast to coast!

Here she was, beautiful Hallie (or as she billed herself out here, _Hallē_) Belden, trying to get a break in Hollywood, only to find out pretty girls are a dime a dozen in California. Her job waitressing was barely paying the rent, and if it wasn't for her father sending her money, she'd be hightailing it back home.

Yet her clumsy, socially inept cousin not only managed to snag the delectable and _rich_ Jim Frayne, but now she was a _celebrity_.

_Life just was not fair_.

**Back in New York City…**

Jim Frayne snuck out of the apartment, hiked down fourteen flights without losing a breath, and exited the apartment building via the delivery entrance. A hoodie was used to hide the red hair that always heralded his appearance well in advance of his opening his mouth.

The need for a bodyguard, even one as nice as Hulk, was wearing on him. A private man, he hated Hulk having to shadow his every move, hated feeling so violated. He made his way down the alley, pausing in the shadows. Bright emerald eyes scoped out the street; luck was with him. None of the teenaged girls were braving the drizzle to screech at him like he was some kind of Hollywood star.

_Well, I guess I'm no Tom Cruise, with groupies waiting in all kinds of weather, hoping for a glimpse._ He directed this bit of sarcasm at himself, his lips curling up at the corner, and thanking Heaven he wasn't.

Jim's long, lean legs and swift stride brought him within minutes to the deli; he had a craving for a fresh bagel loaded with cream cheese. He'd get Trix a sesame one; he always got his plain. The sesame seeds reminded him of birdseed. A small smile graced his lips; birdseed always reminded him of Trixie, a raging blizzard, and the schoolhouse where he, Trixie and Brian took refuge, and Trix made them that horrible birdseed porridge. It was lucky Brian was there, he mused, because his teenaged libido was raging and God only knows what would have happened had he and Trix been alone. _Especially_ since she had confessed her hormones were running as rampant as his.

He placed his order, stepped over to the side, and was idly perusing the magazine rack posted handily by the register for those impulse purchases, when the disconcerting sight of his wife's gorgeous face looking out at him caused every bit of color to wash out of _his_ handsome face.

There she was, _his Trixie_, in full, living, almost breathing, color. Her face was tilted up; her sapphire blue eyes were focused on something in the distance. Her long, creamy neck and shoulders were exposed, and her glorious curls tumbled down her back, held by a bright blue scarf. Her full lips were tinted pink and a slight flush highlighted her high cheekbones.

Eyes wide with shock, he reached out trembling fingers and pulled the magazine out of the rack. A coarse swear word left his lips, one that he would never say in public; that he was doing so in a crowded deli only served to underline the depth of his feelings. As Jim stared at the hot pink headlines, the cashier addressed him again.

"Excuse me, sir. Your order is up. Do you want the magazine, too? We're selling a lot of that issue today. Have been for the past several weeks. She certainly is beautiful. I wouldn't mind hitting _that_." One guy to another, a wink and a smirk.

Jim lifted his head and the cashier saw the glint of murder in the man's turbulent, green gaze. "That's my _wife_," his voice rumbled out, poison dripping off every syllable.

"That will be $9.30, and man, she's _hot."_

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

He had to get out of the house for a while. Becky was incessantly whining, and he was close to losing his temper with her. It wasn't as if they hadn't fought over the years they were together; what couple did not? However, he knew the blinding migraine he would suffer after the argument, the violent heaving of the contents of his stomach and the cold clamminess of his body afterwards would not be worth having words with her.

She was dissatisfied with the length of time it was taking for the _other_ to transform. Becky was sure this one wasn't _the_ one either. The other one in the basement _still_ did not have the facts straight. Sometimes she was Livvy, sometimes Becky. And she wasn't Becky often enough.

He began to think that Becky, _his_ Becky, was correct. His frustration fueled the fire of his _other_ hobby. The one on the island.

The big secret.

He took a moment to congratulate himself. He _really_ was smart. The cops were spinning their wheels about the six missing women. They never even realized the number of prostitutes on the stroll was rapidly diminishing. There was something to trolling among the throwaways of society. _Nobody ever missed them. _They gave him such hours of delight, too, and he didn't even have to pay!

Jordan Jonsson went to the coffee shop where he first approached Livvy. Her face beamed out at him from a poster on the door, and he stopped to stare at it. "Pretty little thing, isn't she?" an older gentleman said to him as they walked in. "It's a shame she disappeared."

"It's dangerous out there for young girls today," Jonsson agreed, a heavy note in his voice.

They queued up, talking in the way strangers do in a long line. The weather, their favorite beverage, other coffee shops. As the older man moved away from the counter, Jonsson gave his order to the barista with a smile and glanced down.

And his whole world came to a sudden, screaming stop.

There she was. Becky. _His_ Becky, on the cover of some magazine. His eyes dilated, his breath came in short rasps, his face flushed and little spots of sweat bloomed on his forehead. There was a roaring in his ears and everything, everything in the shop seemed to be under water, moving in slow motion. "Sir? Sir? Are you all right?" The barista's voice finally penetrated the fog that was enshrouding his brain.

He nodded jerkily, reached for the magazine with reverent fingers, still staring at the picture on the cover, and added it to his order.

He paid his bill, throwing his money on the counter, not taking his eyes from the magazine and walked to his car in a daze. The whole world had suddenly gone flat, two-dimensional, and the only _real_ thing was the object in his hands. He tossed the drink into the bin, untasted, climbed into the driver's seat and continued his intense scrutiny of the woman in the picture on the cover.

It was Becky. _Correction:_ it was what the living, breathing Becky would look like. Her glorious golden curls; those shining sapphire blue eyes. Her skin was fair with that rose tint he loved, her full lips beckoning the viewer to lean in and take a taste. Her neck was long and slender, and she was looking pensively into the distance. Searching? Searching for _him_? Of course she was. They were soulmates.

He felt as if he could not move, could not breathe properly. His limbs weighed a ton. All that existed in his world was that magnificent photograph.

His hand moved of its own accord, index finger first tracing the outline of the woman on the cover of something called _OMG!, _his fingersgently detaching the cover from the rest of the pages.

And then, he ate it.

**Back at Trixie and Jim's…**

Jim's fierce temper was at the fraying point. This whole thing with Paul Trent, the girls screaming his name, his sister, his friends and now his _wife_ in that freakin' excuse for a magazine; he needed an outlet. His blood was boiling and he just wanted to punch something. _Someone_. His nimble mind had absolutely no trouble in visualizing a battered and bloody Paul Trent. He was pretty damn tired of him and his extended family being targets for the ex-reporter.

He let himself back into his apartment, his stomach churning, not wanting to show Trixie the magazine, but realizing he had to. It gnawed away at his soul, until the wall of sound nearly blasted him back into the hall.

_Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take ya_

_Bermuda Bahama, come on pretty mama_

_Key Largo, Montego, Baby why don't we go_

_Down to Kokomo, we'll get there fast and then_

_We'll take it slow_

_Way down in Kokomo. _

The Beach Boys. _Kokomo_. He scrubbed a weary hand over his handsome, freckled face. Her go-to music when she was _really_ upset about something. He knew he'd find her on the treadmill, running hell for leather, trying to outrun the same anger and frustration he was experiencing. Someone in their large circle of friends and acquaintances must have called her.

He slumped against the wall, momentarily defeated. He was twenty freakin' years old and had more stuff happen to him in his short life than people who lived to be 110.

_That's where we want to go, way down to Kokomo._

The song washed over him, upbeat, catchy, and brought back memories of their honeymoon on St Bart's; the silvery sand, tropical moon and the warm turquoise ocean.

Long, lazy days where they had nothing else to do but get lost in each other. Sultry nights, where the beat of the island served as a counterpoint to the beat of their hearts.

Pulling his cell phone from his belt clip, he walked into the far bathroom, shutting the tune out behind him.

It was time to regroup, and what was the sense of being obscenely rich if you couldn't use it?

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

He ran down to the basement, clutching a new copy of the magazine in his sweaty, clammy hands, insanely excited. "Becky! Becky!" His voice was literally quivering, high-pitched with jubilation.

Two voices responded; his Becky, with her Midwest accent and tart, no-nonsense response, and the slow, drugged voice of the _other_ one. He skidded to a stop. He couldn't believe he had forgotten _her_.

The other Becky was supine on the cot, her clothes dirty and askew. The blonde wig tilted quite drunkenly on her head, where miniscule nubs of brown hair were peeking through the pink skin. She was sliding in and out of consciousness, weak and dehydrated.

_His_ Becky was snarling at him from the stool, tired of being perched there day after day. Giving a wide berth to the creature on the cot, he approached the one thing he imagined he cared for above all else. Except himself, of course.

"Look at this Becky!" He shoved the magazine under her good eye. "Look at this and tell me what you think."

Her startled gasp was like a cannon shot in the quiet room. "It's…it's me," she said, wonderment coloring her voice. Her blue eye shone out at him. "It's _me_."

"We're going to New York City. This is it, Becky. A sign. What we've been waiting for all these years." His voice was bubbling, effervescent. "I have a car coming in an hour or two. We have a lot to do. I have to pack."

He lifted Becky, and with the utmost care, cradled her body in his arms. "The plane will be waiting for us at the airport on the other side of the border. We'll stay at the apartment in New York when we get there." He knew he was babbling, but could not contain his exhilaration. "She's perfect Becky. _Perfect."_

"Perfectly perfect," Becky agreed. Her voice was a soft purr in his ear, like it always was when she was pleased. "What's her name, darling?" she asked as he carried her upstairs, being careful not to jar her. She was so terribly fragile now.

His colorless, cold eyes looked down into her sapphire blue one. "It doesn't matter," he informed her. "_Nothing_ in her current life matters now. She'll be Rebecca Jonsson Lavigne before the month is out. I promise you this." _After_ _all_, he thought, a dreamy expression on his face, _she already _was_ a part of him._


	26. Tabloid Trix Chapter 25

Tabloid Trix Chapter 25

**Lyons, France…**

Lissa Ann Thorne watched, the barest hint of sadness in her eyes, as the couple carted off the dresser in the small truck they borrowed. She glanced around her flat, by now almost devoid of anything personal. The bedroom, ascetic even before her decision to sell everything, consisted of an old cot and a few packed boxes. Everything else had been ruthlessly inventoried, sold or discarded. The balance was shipped to a storage facility in New York City, in the country she fled ahead of the searching eyes of the boogeyman.

Her lip curled at that one. The boogeyman. How many other people had a monstrous deviant for a sibling? One that made the childhood fear of…_things_…lurking in the closet or under the bed tame by comparison?

Lissa considered her current course of action. She accumulated tons of vacation time, surprised her superiors by requesting it all at once. She didn't resign from Interpol; oh, no. She might need that ID card in the future.

She was shocked that the future didn't scare her anymore. Lissa was going home, back to the USA, and even if going home meant meeting the monster head on and facing her own certain death, she was ready for it. It was time to stop running, time to take action. The six missing women in Montréal convinced her of this. They may not have found the bodies yet, but she knew.

Hunter was in Canada, still looking. Looking for the perfect Becky in human form. All the ones before, all were dressed like that god-forsaken doll. Lissa didn't know why she booked the flight to New York instead of Montréal; but she listened to that little flash of intuition. It served her well in the past, would serve her well now.

She grabbed the suitcases and walked downstairs to the landlord's. He would see that the pitiful few things left would find their way to her. After a brief conversation and the return of the key, she entered the waiting taxi.

She cautioned herself to start thinking in English again, and began mentally preparing herself to set foot on the soil of her homeland, and of the showdown she was sure was just ahead. It was time Jody Lavigne avenged her parents and her best friend.

**30****th**** Precinct Police Station, Manhattan…**

The man in the rumpled jeans and stained sweater was being led into the precinct house, hands cuffed behind his back and muttering loudly. The hookers chained and lined up on the benches looked up; nothing interesting, just another standard crazy.

The Desk Sergeant looked up, saw the really flushed face of the wild-eyed man Officer Deegan was escorting, none too gently, into the station. "Whatcha got there, Morty?"

"Nothing!" The man shouted, causing the Sarge to raise his eyebrows. "He ain't got nothing."

Morty approached the desk, his blue eyes filled with amusement. "Shaddup you." Turning and addressing the Sarge, he began to explain. "Mr. Big-shot Press Trent…who I ain't never heard of by the way, have you? – was drinkin' over at the Blue Sqirll when I observed him leave the bar with a lit cigarette, and then dispose of the evidence in the street." Officer Deegan held up a small evidence bag.

The Sarge tsked and waved a stubby finger. "Litterin' our fair city. Not to mention smokin' in a public house. I say Officer Deegan certainly does have somethin'."

"Oh, and that ain't all, Sarge. Then, he went into the alley to, uh, relieve himself."

"The toilet in that dump was backed up. You should be fining them for creating a public health hazard," Trent ground out.

"Oh, and you ain't by pissin' in the street? I think the pot is callin' the kettle…well, book him, Morty. Litterin', smokin' in a public place and indecent exposure."

Morty led the sputtering man to lockup. "Night Court for you, Mr. Press-man. Give the lady the stuff out of your pockets."

Ten minutes later, Trent was listening to the jail doors clang shut behind him. He shuffled over to the far side of the lock-up, not engaging any of the other occupants in conversation, and slid to the filthy floor. What the hell was happening lately?

There was the ticket for jaywalking. Nobody _ever_ got a ticket for jaywalking in the City. Hell, it was almost an Olympic sport there. Then he got pulled into a line-up down in the Central Park Precinct. They said he resembled the description of a purse snatcher in the area. He spent several hours in lock-up there, too.

And there was the warning from the officer on the beat when he left his apartment one night to pick up some butts at the liquor store. The cop told him, with the straightest of faces, it was illegal to wear slippers after 10:00 P.M.

Trent almost wanted to believe he was being targeted, but not even Wheeler or Lynch had enough pull to get to as many different precincts as he was recently accosted in. He ground his teeth and waited, uncomfortable, for his latest appearance before the law of the land and sighed. Someday these so-called cops would be parking cars for him at his palatial estate.

He was _sure _of it.

At the same time Trent was marking time in a jail cell, in a large, elegant brownstone in the Village, Will Breitling, Anna Ciccone and Stephen Jensen were sharing a sumptuous meal with the Police Commissioner of New York City.

Anna giggled as Will threw her a salacious wink. Sometimes, it was _good_ to be Locard.

**Liberty International Airport, Newark, NJ…**

Lissa Ann Thorne stepped off the Air France jet, into the strange accordion contraption that would lead her into from her adopted country onto the soil of her birth one.

It was a very strange feeling.

She stepped out into Terminal C and was immediately assaulted by the cacophony of American voices. The loudspeaker making flight announcements; kids excitedly tripping over questions to their indulgent parents; someone arguing at a ticket counter in a loud voice. And the smells…hot dogs, a whiff of pretzels; coffee. Lissa stood, blocking the way of other exiting passengers for a minute while she took it all in.

_Home._

She followed the signs to the monorail that linked the airport to train that would whisk her into New York City, and from there to Brooklyn and the small apartment she rented. She walked outside of the terminal to get her first look outside, in the open, in the United States. A quiver of fear snaked up her spine. For the first time in a long time, she was on the same continent as _he_ was.

She settled her knapsack over her shoulders, made sure the messenger bag was securely fastened. A long, dark limousine pulled right up next to her, completely ignoring the signs that said No Parking, Stopping or Standing, and a uniformed chauffeur jumped out.

_Must be nice_ she thought as she made her way back into the terminal and to the monorail.

And in so doing, walked within three feet of the tall man with the cashmere coat who nodded at the limo driver and climbed in.

Neither Jody nor Hunter Lavigne realized how close fate brought them, one the predator and one the prey, in a crowded airport in Essex County, New Jersey.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

The police had cordoned off the section of the island, but that didn't stop the press from reporting the find. A few zodiac type boats were pulled up on the banks; the sides garishly painted with the name of the rental company. A couple of detectives had the group of college kids off to one side, questioning them as gently as possible. Most had a horror-struck expression frozen on their faces; some were openly crying.

To a person, they wanted to go home to mommy and climb into her lap, and have her make it all better again. But it would never be all better again. _Never_.

The students, out for some extra-credit, out to save the environment, and just to work off some of those high spirits stumbled across the abattoir.

What they saw would forever be ingrained in their minds. It would lead that cute girl sobbing on the Professor's shoulder into a life of drugs and booze. That boy over there would commit suicide in two years. Two of them would be hospitalized for depression. The Professor would resign and become a recluse, unable to forgive himself for leading the kids into _that_.

And one would write a best-seller.

The cameras on the boats watched with their unflinching, electronic eyes as body bag after body bag first appeared at the edge of the forest, then was solemnly escorted to the awaiting medical boat.

Jean-Pierre Loriot stood on the beach, dark eyes turned to the brightly lit forest, his hands clenched in fists of rage. Of course it wasn't confirmed yet, would not be confirmed for some time due to the decomposition of the bodies, but he knew where his six missing women were.

He turned from the scene to look out over the St. Lawrence, its waters as dark as the sky above. Right across from the island was a large, dark blob; a few dim lights shone off a dock and reflected weakly in some windows.

Maybe the owner of the house got a look at something going on here. Flashlights; a boat maybe. He made up his mind to go there first thing in the morning.

_His team of cleaners came in the same day he left; the house was wiped from top to bottom, except for the room in the basement that was locked. They were very thorough and did a very good job. All trash was bagged and taken. Not a fingerprint could be found inside or out. They were paid well for their discretion, and the team was back in the US by nightfall._

_If they wondered what was behind the locked door, nobody said so out loud. The gig was too well paying, and everyone knew the boss was a germ nut. The consensus was just another rich eccentric. That's all._

He _thought she was dead. He gave her a massive dose in her water, made her drink it right down in front of him. He wiped down the room as she slumped to the floor, already dismissed from his mind. He pulled on the special gloves that had the fingerprints of the real Jordan Jonsson, conveniently buried in the vast desert outside of Las Vegas, and made sure to touch as many surfaces as possible. He took out a chisel, jimmied open the back door, breaking the lock. _

_Before he left, he took the iron manacle off her leg, taking it with him. A small twinge of regret pierced through him, he so wanted to play a little with her, and he'd not get her eyes. _

_And then he left. As soon as the door clicked behind him, he forgot her existence._

_Several minutes after the door closed, the recumbent figure on the floor moved, just that little bit. A great, gasping breath and then she began to forcefully eject the contents of her stomach onto the cold floor. When her freezing, battered body was done heaving, she just fell asleep, covered in filth, but alive. _

**Jim and Trixie's apartment…**

"Wha…what do mean, you rented an _island_?" Trixie had been badgering him for the past few days after he sent the text message to all to be prepared with their passports and pack some warm weather clothes. They were departing Friday at noon and would return Sunday night.

He knew, absolutely _knew_ they were going to have a go 'round on this. Which is why he didn't tell her in the first place. He brought his turbulent emerald gaze to her stormy sapphire one. "Simple Trix," he said, rather flippantly. "That's what rich people do. Jet-set off at a moment's notice, rent islands for the weekend getaway." If there was an underlying note of bitterness, she was too angry to notice it.

She stepped back from him, her head jerking as if he slapped her. "_Rich people_? Jim, we agreed to a budget, which you've obviously blown for the next twenty years." Her hands began to twist together. This money disparity thing was difficult for her, had grown more difficult with Masse and the magazine just about calling her a gold-digger. Jim didn't even discuss this with her at all.

"Trix, you know as well as I do neither of us has to work if we really don't want to, we don't even need to live with a budget. Why not sit back and enjoy the money for once, babe?" His voice was icy calm. He didn't feel the need to explain himself to her, for once. Didn't feel like he wanted to explain how he needed, how _they_ needed, how _all_ of them needed to get away, recharge and rethink. No, he spent all of his damn teenage years watching her and his sister _not explain themselves_.

Trixie stared at Jim, her eyes round with hurt. _He sounded just like that stupid magazine said he is, a rich, arrogant jerk. _Feeling miserably guilty at the wounded look on his wife's face, Jim refused to back down. _It was the principle of the thing_, he told himself. "Just take a chill pill, Trix."

Her chest tightened until she felt like she couldn't breathe; the absolute pain was swamping her. For a brief moment, the room whirled around her. His cold, dispassionate words sliced through her more effectively than any knife ever could.

She had too much pride to stand there and allow freedom to the crystal drops gathering in her eyes. Too much pride to stomp off into another room and allow vent to her tempestuous feelings.

And _he_ had too much pride, too much anger, too much everything to look up, be undone by his wife's tears. He kept his eyes on the ground waiting for her next words.

_Words that never came_. His head snapped back as he heard the sharp click of the outside door. He jumped off the sofa, punched in the code and threw open the door, but it was too late.

_She was gone_.

When he arrived in New York, the first thing he did was get his hair cut. Jordan Jonsson was no more; his longish hair was replaced by the crisp businessman's cut. Jonsson's friendly expression was replaced by the aloof and condescending manner of Hunter Lavigne. Someone who knew both personas would be astonished they were one in the same.

And that was _exactly_ why eyewitnesses were so unreliable.

He was outside of the apartment building, scoping out the territory. His urban club kid outfit was in place: black leather pants stuffed into black riding boots; graphic tee with Lady Gaga; black leather jacket with strategic rips and holes; perched incongruously on his head, an Andy Warhol platinum wig and red plastic Ray-Bans.

He sauntered down the street, across from her apartment, joining the throng outside. "What's going on, kids?" he lisped to a couple of the girls.

They took a long look at him, recognized him as one of the cognoscenti of clubgoing by his garments. Being the good little New Yorkers they were, they began to _network_. After all, you couldn't have too many friends that could get you into the best clubs!

"We're waiting to see if we can catch a glimpse of one of the male Bob-Whites," the young girl giggled.

"What are they, a new boy-band?" He knew _exactly_ who they were.

"No silly, god, they are the hottest guys out there. You know, in _OMG!_ magazine," another tittered.

He pretended to think. "Oh my, yesh! That dreamy construction worker guy and that gang member! Almost takes me back to the days of the Village People!" He waited a beat for the giggle. "But I thought they all had girlfriends or were married."

One of the girls waived her hands airily, dismissing his statement. "Yeah, Jim's married. To that stupid blonde with a name like a hooker. He deserves better than that. Better than her. They all do, dating those stupid cows from the country."

"They need some _real _women from the City, not some Betty Crocker from some backwards little town where the biggest thrill is cow tipping," sneered another. Just then, a collective gasp rose from the crowd as the doorman opened the door. "Look! Somebody's coming out!"

Trixie paused at the doorway, looking across the street at the gathering of BWG groupies. Every day, it seemed to her, the crowd outside their once-peaceful apartment was growing. And just this one time, her intuition failed her. Devastated by Jim's seeming indifference to her feelings and his obvious dismissal of her objections, she walked out onto the pavement, alone, coatless, and headed for the warmth of Java City.

**Back Upstairs…**

Jim was pacing the apartment, his jaw clenched and the tic working overtime. He finally pulled out his cell phone and called Trixie's number. He was startled by the cell phone tones ringing right there in the apartment. _She went out without her phone._

_Honey's. She went to Honey's_. _She always wants Honey when she's upset with me._ He dialed his sister, urging her to answer the goddamn phone already.

"Jim? What's up?" Her chirpy voice grated on his raw nerves. "Have you finally decided to tell us where we're going?"

"Ah, Trix forgot her cell phone and I thought she said she was going over to your apartment," he lied through his teeth. _She wasn't there. _The lake of acid that was churning in his stomach became an ocean. "She might have said to her brothers' and I wasn't listening," he added, praying his sister wouldn't see through the slight hesitation in his voice.

"A male failing! Why don't you just walk it over there? Why does she need it so badly?" Honey was just a bit intrigued.

"Ah, you know, Locard stuff. She gets upset if she misses anything." Now that _was_ the truth, and it rang in his voice. "Let me go over and see what's what." He terminated the call without saying goodbye, leaving Honey staring at her telephone.

Jim knew. She wasn't over at the guys' apartment either. He was sure if she was, he would have a gaggle of angry Belden men and one massively angry Irish guy beating down his door. She wouldn't go to Ian…Aidan's_. Would she_?

Jim dismissed _that_ thought. He knew she was embarrassed by the other man's devotion to her, especially since she never led him to think she was interested in him as anything but a friend.

_Which left one thing_. Jim stopped pacing, shoved his restless hands in his pockets. She went out. Alone, in the semi-dark. A chill ran up his spine. He just finished discussing with his dad this morning whether or not the security advisor thought Trixie might need a bodyguard. She was mainly with him, and when she wasn't, she was with Honey or Di. When she was off to Locard, Bastian provided door-to-door service. It was decided at this point, Trixie did not require an additional bodyguard.

He was on the phone with Hulk immediately.

**Back on the street… **

"Ah, it's only the blonde on the cover," somebody hissed in a disappointed voice.

_He_ wasn't disappointed at all. Two of the girls broke off from the group and began to follow Trixie. And he began to follow them. _If only he had planned better_. He didn't have anything with him, wasn't prepared. He would also have to take into consideration the crowds outside of the apartment building.

The two girls in front of him were speaking loudly, obviously waiting to confront almost-Becky. He was not about to let _that_ happen. He'd see them in hell first. He kept a careful eye on the quivering mass of golden curls bobbing ahead of him. He watched as she entered the coffee shop, saw her rubbing her arms, as if she was cold. She ordered her drink, a skinny vanilla latte, and moved to the farthest table.

He entered the store right after the girls, who, as he suspected, weren't in the store because they had a sudden yen for a half-caf mocha latte. No, they strode over to her table, standing right in front of her, in that peculiar stance girls always assumed before they started a catfight.

Trixie looked up when the two shadows loomed over her. She saw two girls, maybe fifteen if that, heavily made up and eyes sparkling with malice.

"You don't deserve him," the one girl sneered. "I mean, _look_ at you."

The other girl chimed in, looking Trixie up and down and finding her wanting. "Jim could do _so_ much better than you. You're pathetic, with that stupid curly hair and god, what are you, four feet tall?" They both broke into raucous laughter at that.

Trixie closed her eyes, wondering if this day could possibly get any worse. A male voice broke into the laughter. "Not cool, girls." Trixie peered through slitted eyes. The man with the rather high voice was dressed in black leather with the most amazing platinum blonde wig.

The girls had turned to look at him, rolled their eyes and tried to explain. "We're just trying to have some fun. We're not gonna hurt her." Only a 15 year-old could have such a whining voice. The fact that they even brought up hurting her meant they were thinking of it. He was sure of that. He recognized part of himself in the girls, even if they did not.

"I think you both have _much_ more important things to do than hassle this lady. Here's my card. It'll get you into Club Zap. It's only the _hottest_ club in New York City. You won't have to hang around some old apartment building waiting for some guy to come out. All the hot guys are there. _I_ should know," he twinkled at them.

The girls squealed with delight. "Ohmigod! Thank you! We've been trying to get in there like forever." For a moment in time, they stopped looking like 30-year-olds and were just kids again. Both spared a pitying glance at Trixie, and continued to chatter in that way only teenage girls could.

"Thanks," Trixie said, her voice quiet.

"No problem." The man gave her a brief smile, went and sat a couple tables away. A space where he could stare to his heart's content. God, she was beautiful. Her hair was long and thick with curls; the close up he got of her clear blue eyes put everyone else's to shame. Her skin was creamy, tinged with rose.

She was the living, breathing Becky.

A large man appeared at her table; he almost got up, but saw her slight smile. The man sat down, and Bobby Valentine, club kid, angled in to eavesdrop.

"You shouldn't go out after dark by yourself, Trixie. It's not safe," Hulk admonished her.

"Yeah, I'm beginning to learn that," she said in a sad little voice. Hulk looked at the red-rimmed eyes and heard the nervous tapping of her feet.

"What happened?" He was instantly on hyperalert, scanning the shop. He didn't see anything odd; just the Andy Warhol wannabe, and that was just typical New York.

"Jim's fans apparently don't think I'm such a wonderful wife. And apparently," her voice broke, "He doesn't either, Hulk." She would not cry, she told herself sternly.

"Trixie, _Jim_ sent me after you. He's terribly worried. I had to convince him it would be faster and easier if I went alone." He didn't like the wounded, fragile look in her face. Her body was just screaming defeat.

"Yeah, sure." She was wracked with shivering, both from the cold and from the aborted confrontation with the fans, and the argument with Jim.

"C'mon, let's get you home." The large man almost-Becky addressed as Hulk took off his flannel shirt and draped it around her. It was miles too big, but she flashed him a grateful smile. Leaving the store, she inclined her head to the flashy man whose intercession saved her from a very unpleasant confrontation.

Bobby Valentine pulled out the rather dog-eared magazine with the gorgeous blonde on the cover, and stared at it. His powerful mind was knitting all the pieces of information he had gathered into a whole.

Her husband had a quite large bodyguard. _But she didn't_.

There were a lot of crazy fans camped outside of the apartment building, so he couldn't risk an out-and-out daytime abduction. Since she was married, he couldn't use any of his dating ruses.

He needed to get the attention away from the building. He opened up the magazine, went to the page that listed the editorial information. _Nanci D'Rue_, he snorted to himself. Bet she had fun with that name. And then a large, beatific smile crossed his face.

There it was in black and white. _OMG!_ published by World Vista Entertainment, a subsidiary of RJL Enterprises, Inc., which itself was a subsidiary of Lavigne, LLC. Oh, it was a gloriously convoluted world he created.

_He owned the freaking magazine_. Stepping outside of the store, he pulled out his cell phone, hit speed dial and his tone transformed from swishy Bobby Valentine into the cold, hard voice of Hunter Lavigne as he barked orders into the phone.

**Back at Jim and Trixie's…**

Jim was pacing the outside hall, cell phone in hand, waiting for Hulk's call _that wasn't coming_. He was really trying hard not to descend into panic mode, but it was rapidly overwhelming him.

Why did everything with Trixie have to be so _difficult_? Why couldn't she just _not_ ask why, want to know every damn detail, make him crazy? Why did the freakin' money matter so much? It was there, it was a part of him now. She was supposed to have taken him for better or worse, richer or poorer. So they were at the richer part now. Would she love him better if he only had a silver christening mug, an old rifle and a battered family bible to his name?

_If it was all _easy_, then she wouldn't be _Trixie_, you ass._ The little voice in his head became a big roar. His emerald green eyes, clouded with worry, snapped open. He slapped his forehead smartly, as if his brains were leaking out and he needed to shove them back in.

For being such a smart guy, he sure was dumb at times.

The elevator gave a muted ding, and the door whooshed open. Trixie was handing Hulk a flannel shirt, her body language telegraphing dejection. She was outlined in the muted lighting at the elevator bank, shoulders slumped, head down, and none of the sizzling sparkle she emanated so effortlessly. Before she turned to see Jim in the hallway, Hulk gave him a smart, two-finger salute as the doors silently closed, and mouthed a 'good luck.'

She turned slowly and caught sight of her red-headed husband lurking in the hallway. He watched as she carefully straightened her shoulders, threw those magnificent blonde curls back as her head came up. He could literally see the warrior taking over, and he had to grin. It didn't matter if they had some stupid fight, nothing mattered except the woman coming towards him with a blue fire in those haunting eyes.

Jim met her halfway, and they stood, staring, neither backing down. Without a word, he raised his left hand, palm up. Still mesmerized by his deep green gaze, she placed her cold, small hand into his, and he curled his fingers tightly around it. "You're still my special girl," he said with a hint of his crooked grin.

"Always and forever," Trixie replied. There was sadness in her voice that caught at his heart.

"Where did you go?"

"Java City. You sent Hulk after me."

"He wouldn't let me go. Said it would be better if he went alone, without riling up the posse out there," Jim nodded towards the front of the building.

"They're riled up anyway," Trixie said her voice weary and strained, dropping her gaze.

He tilted up her chin with his index finger. Her lids had closed over those clear blue eyes, and he fixated on her long, sandy lashes. "Something happened."

She felt stuck. She'd have to tell him, and know he'd blame himself, and not that stupid magazine. Or she could try to brazen it out and let Hulk tell him, and then they would have another blazing row. "Let's go in, Jim," she countered, not wanting to have this conversation out in the hall.

Trixie followed him inside, closed the door and leaned back against it. He waited as patiently as he could; his red hair all messed up from running his hands through it and a searching look in his green eyes.

She couldn't look at him and tell him this, but she couldn't look away, either. "Ummm, when I left here I was pretty angry with you," she began.

"Trix," he started, and she held up a hand.

"Just let me finish, Jim." At his nod, she took a deep breath. "I know you think it's about the money and it is, partly. But mostly it's you doing something so big and not even talking it over with me. I'm _supposed_ to be your wife. We're _supposed_ to make big decisions together. Like when I joined Locard." She paused, looked into his troubled gaze and knew she scored a hit.

"I went out and it was cold, and I wanted some alone time, so I walked over to Java City. Two of the girls out there started following me down the block. They were yelling some pretty nasty things."

The pretty rose color he loved washed over her cheekbones. He could feel his own temper begin to ignite, as he balled his fists at his sides. When he didn't say anything, she continued.

"I went into the shop, got a latte and sat down. And the two of them followed me in, confronted me at the table."

"Oh, god, Trix…" he couldn't say more. The famous Frayne temper was choking him, closing his throat.

A tiny smile curved the corners of her lips. "There was a club kid in there, you know the type, black leather, Lady Gaga. He was wearing an Andy Warhol wig," she giggled a little. "He told the girls they weren't cool and gave them a pass to some club, they left and I thanked him. And then Hulk came."

"They could have hurt you, baby." He took two steps, gathered her in his arms, all the while brewing with unreleased temper. "You're not telling me everything." His large hand was tangled in those damn curls of hers, so soft and silky and _his_.

Her lips curved against his shirt. "Well, you know, sticks and stones."

He leaned down, buried his face in her hair. "I didn't mean to make you mad, Trix. I just thought we all needed a break away from all this. You had on the Beach Boys and I remembered our honeymoon, and well, the rest is history."

"But an _island_, Jim? We could have just gone back to the villa in St. Bart's."

"Yeah, and maybe been followed down there by the paparazzi. Dad knows someone who knows someone who has a private island. Just one house, some additional guest cottages, a private runway and a discreet staff who all have ironclad confidentiality agreements. No need to worry about photographers lurking in bushes or people selling our pictures to the tabs_. I_ need this. The BWGs need this."

"Okay. Okay, Jim. Just promise me next time we'll talk about it." Her slender hands were brushing up and down his back, trying to soothe the temper out of him.

He had to grin. So quick to anger; so quick to forgive. "More marriage rules?" he teased. Looking thoughtful, he slid his hands down her arms and laced his hands with hers. "There's just one more thing I have to do now."

He grabbed his keys from the small table near the door, pulled her out into the hallway and back down to the bank of elevators.

Trixie practically had to gallop to keep pace with his much longer stride. "Whe…where are we going, Jim?" Her voice was breathless.

He plastered his hand on the plate that scanned his palm print. "You'll see." The doors opened for them and he pulled her inside.

"Jim?" She had no idea what he was up to now, as the passenger car began its swift descent. Once out into the lobby, he almost dragged her to the front doors.

"Jim? Is this wise? Hulk isn't here." She had no idea what her redhead was up to, but just had to follow his lead. After all, _somebody_ needed to protect him from the hordes of groupies out there.

He waited a beat for Dave the night doorman to open the door, with a mumbled greeting and raised eyebrows.

They were out on the street, under the large burgundy awning that was brightly lit for the convenience of the apartment dwellers. As he expected, his red hair was like a beacon announcing his arrival to the crowd across the street. They broke out into small screams. "It's him!"

He stopped under the awning, knowing he and Trixie were right out there in full view of the excited crowd. He turned her to face him, a large grin splitting his face, and whispered, "Better get yourself prepared, Mrs. Frayne."

Her sapphire eyes were trapped by the mischievous look in his emerald green ones. Her lips slightly parted, and she wrinkled her pert, pretty little nose at him, when his muscled arms reached out, pulled her tightly to him as his mouth crashed down on hers.

It didn't matter to either one of them that they were being observed. Didn't matter they were out on a public street. All that was real was the feel of his tongue sliding against hers, taking her deeper and deeper into the kiss until her hands fluttered in the air like white butterflies, lighting in his crisp red hair.

They broke this kiss, gasping for air. Her knees were weak and the most delicious sensations were rocketing through her veins. All she knew was she wanted _more_.

He was unbearably aroused; found the texture of her lips, the smoothness or her skin and the silkiness of her hair to be almost painfully erotic. Forgetting all about the crowds, all about everything, his lips sought out hers again. He picked her up, cradling her, still ravishing her mouth. A very loud cough finally broke through the red haze that had become his brain, and he saw a grinning Dave motioning them back inside. The crowd outside was silently watching this little play unfold. _Just like Jim wanted them to._

"You _got_ a room. Upstairs." he whispered to Jim, laughing, as the man carried his rather dazed looking pretty wife inside. Dave had absolutely no doubt what those two would be up to shortly on the 14th floor.

Across the street, several of the girls sighed. It was just _so_ romantic, the way the tall, handsome man couldn't seem to keep his hands off his pretty, blonde wife; the way he scooped her up in his arms like some hero in a passionate love story. Some of the girls decided Jim, Brian, Mart and Dan were really not worth their while and were already moving on to the next obsession.

Then there were the girls simply did not believe their eyes. They knew, deep in their hearts, if only they could meet him, JimBrianDanMart, he would soon cast his wife or girlfriend aside for _true love_ only she could offer.

And Bobby Valentine, hand stuck in his pocket, crushed his cell phone with his bare hand in rage.

Jim Frayne better kiss her now, because he knew almost-Becky would soon return to him. She was just sleeping right now in the body of Trixie Frayne. She needed _him_ to wake her up.

In the meantime, he needed _relief_. 8 million people and more than half were women. He already had the playground set up. _Time to find a playmate_.


	27. Tabloid Trix Chapter 26

Tabloid Trix Chapter 26

**Friday in NYC…**

The big black limousine pulled up in front of the elegant apartment building, blocking the view of the crowd gathered across the street, waiting for a glimpse of a Bob-White. _Any_ Bob-White. The crowd was larger today, vocal, and co-ed.

The _In the Know_ van was camped around the corner; Ryan Hanson and Cilla Cecere were keeping an eye on the spontaneous gathering that grew larger each day.

"I guess it's the Occupy Central Park West Movement," Ryan quipped, badly.

Cilla wrinkled her nose at him and mimicked a gagging noise. "And that's why I'm in front of the camera and you're…not," she teased. Eyeballing the limo, she wondered out loud, "Somebody's leaving in style. I don't suppose you want to hazard a guess? We could bet twenty on it."

"Oh yeah, and I'm _that_ dumb. Let me see, you'd guess Madeleine Wheeler and/or Diana Lynch or the redhead." Ryan snorted his opinion of that sucker bet.

A shout went up from the crowd and they both whipped their heads back to the entrance. "It would have been a draw," Cilla grinned. The glass doors opened and they all began to exit the building, slipping into the limo and leaving overnight cases for the doorman and driver to pack in the trunk.

"I counted nine of them. Aren't there supposed to be seven?" Cilla replayed the scene in her mind. Yeah. There were definitely nine.

As the driver slammed the trunk and slid behind the wheel, the crowd, unruly, screaming and feeding off itself, swarmed across the street and surrounded the limo. Bodies, hands and faces were plastered against the darkly tinted windows. Fists were pounding, voices raised. "I love you Di!" "Jim! Look at me!" "Danny, I love you!"

Cilla and Ryan watched with mouths agape as three very large men parted the crowd easily and motioned the driver to go. As the limo sped down the street, the crowd was running after it, still frenzied, still caught up in the magic of seeing them all together.

The two in the truck shared a speaking glance. "Follow them," Cilla said. _This_ was getting to be interesting.

**At the **_**OMG!**_** printing plant in New Jersey…**

The short, bald man with the unlit cigar hanging out of his mouth came running into the control room, out of breath and with the most unholy, gleeful expression on his squat little face.

"Stop the presses!" he rasped out. The woman sitting at the control panel rolled her eyes.

"No, I mean it, Jo," he gasped out of clenched teeth. "Stop the presses!" Jo didn't make a move; her expressive face telegraphing her skepticism more clearly than words. The man raised a fist and struck the red panic button; the loud machinery squealed to a stop and the building sank into blessed silence.

"I always wanted to say that," he smiled, his fish lips slickly pink and slack. "Just another thing to cross off my bucket list."

"You better have a good reason for shutting down production, Charlie," Jo ground out. The little man gave her the creeps. She wondered vaguely if one of the items on his bucket list was to unzip the human suit he was wearing and go back to whatever planet he came from. "If you're just fooling around, headquarters is going to be mighty pissed."

He settled a plump hip against the control panel. "Where do you think the order came from? I got the email a few minutes ago." He chewed the end of the cigar, and rubbed his scalp. "HQ says to stop printing _OMG!_ and bundle up the copies we have printed. A recycle company will be here in the morning to pick them up."

Jo picked up the test copy that was printed before the run was given the go-ahead. A split picture: one side screamed _Is Honey Cheating on Brian?_ and pictured a very pretty woman walking down a street in the city with a tall, auburn haired male. _Who is the Mystery Man?_ The other side showcased the old newspaper photo of Jim holding Trixie aloft after his no hitter, but the rest of the team surrounding them was photoshopped out, and the innocuous places where his hands rested covered with big, white 'Censored' starbursts. _Was Trixie Underage in this Revealing Pic? What Jim Does Not Want You to Know!_

Jo, ignoring the slime that was perched on her desk, fed the computer the instructions that would terminate this run and set up the next run for another magazine. "You better go down and advise the guys," she hinted to Charlie, without even looking up.

He knew enough to take the hint, clamped down on his cigar again and slammed the door in a fit of pique. "And don't let it hit you in the ass when you leave," Jo murmured out loud. She fingered the test copy on her desk, and wondered why the big shots shut the rag down. Shrugging her shoulders, she finally decided it was none of her damn business.

**On the Internet…**

The _OMG!_ site was building, had been building every day since the issue with Jim on the cover had hit the stands. Nick Clayborne's blog was averaging a couple of million hits per day, especially when they decided to run a teaser for the next issue. The message boards were exploding.

Inquiring minds were shocked when the site became unresponsive. It didn't matter what search engine a person used, Google, Bing or Yahoo; the same message was displayed: This Domain Can Not Be Found.

**At **_**OMG!**_** Offices…**

Nanci D'Rue, Nick Clayborne and Amy Ling were waiting. And waiting. The battered old conference room would soon see the likes of the infamous Hunter Lavigne. _Hunter Lavigne!_

Each of the three had their own reasons for thrilling to that name. He was a recluse, an eccentric genius, and to meet him, maybe even interview him, was a journalistic dream come true.

Nanci was dressed to the nines in her most flattering suit. Small cubic zirconia flashed on her ears, close enough to the brilliance of real diamonds_. Hunter Lavigne_. Her mind was busy dissecting the ramifications of his visit to their little office. Her eyes glittered with suppressed excitement and nerves. _She _took this rag from near-bankruptcy to the hottest thing in America. Oh yeah. She would be one tough negotiator. He _owed_ her, man.

Nick Clayborne shared Nanci's excitement. Who knew what glad news the biggest of the big bosses would bring? The blog was doing great, but it could be better. He wondered if he could convince Lavigne to let him relocate to the west coast. All the great parties and big-names were out there. Maybe even a podcast. Yeah, he was photogenic enough. And if he maybe got discovered out there and offered a lead role, hell, he wouldn't turn it down. Yep, this was turning out to be one fine day.

Amy Ling had far greater aspirations than even the two others pacing the room. Hunter Lavigne. Mega-rich. Mega-genius. Heterosexual and _unmarried_. The very few times he had been photographed, he was invariably with a fine-boned, petite woman. _Just like her_. So what if they all were blondes? She could change her hair color in the time it took for an appointment at some upscale salon.

The very same man and the subject of their frenzied fantasies – it was ironic how they didn't see the similarity between themselves and the fans engaging in similar fantasies on a street in Manhattan - was sitting in the limo outside of the decaying building, conferring with his right-hand man, Chief Corporate Counsel, and hatchet man, Timothy Nunan. The two of them had orchestrated many of these meetings before, had it all down to a science.

They exited the car, looking very out of place and eyed the rather run-down building. No security or receptionist in the tiny lobby; just a sign with little black press-in letters that advised the reader on what floor each of the few tenants was located.

The elevator was old, smelled, and he briefly wondered if they would even make it up to the office. As it was, he didn't push the button that would whisk them to their destination. No way was he touching the grimy, discolored thing. That's what Nunan got paid the big bucks for.

If Timothy Nunan wondered to himself why the boss was pulling the plug on the magazine now that it was wildly successful, he kept the question to himself. He had his reasons, and he didn't feel the need to explain them. A small shiver snaked its way down Nunan's spine. No way did he want those cold, colorless eyes turned on him in displeasure.

A peremptory knock, and the two men entered the dilapidated office that housed the now defunct magazine.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

Jean-Pierre Loriot rang the doorbell of the impressive house on the waterfront, right across the river from, well, from the killing grounds. It rang hollowly inside, the Westminster Chimes sounding oddly dirge-like.

There was not an iota of movement inside. He decided to trot around to the waterfront, look across the St. Lawrence and determine the line of sight to the island. As he passed a pair of French doors, he stopped to peer inside.

All he saw were the dust motes dancing in the weak afternoon sun.

Turning the corner of the house, he saw the charming brick patio with the outdoor kitchen covered by a pergola. A path of interlocking paving stones led from the patio area to the waterfront and boathouse. Figuring the owner wouldn't mind, Jean-Paul walked across the patio and began to descend the slight incline towards the river.

He noted the rather large boathouse obscured a lot of the island on ground level. He glanced back at the house and saw the pretty stone balcony that ran its full length on the second floor, and a number of French doors leading from various rooms onto it. Turning back to the shore, a pile of refuse caught his attention; it seemed oddly out of place on the grounds of the immaculate mansion.

As he walked forward, the pile moved ever so slightly, so slightly he thought a breeze must have affected it.

Until he heard the moan.

His cop's reflexes kicked in with a rush of adrenaline. It wasn't a pile of rubbish; it was the body of a young woman, partly submerged in the cold water of the St. Lawrence. As he reached under her arms and dragged her out, his was cataloging her condition.

She was filthy, covered in blood and vomit; and cold, so cold. Her head was shaven and little brown stubble contrasted starkly with her pale scalp. She was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes; torn tights, one Maryjane shoe; and old-fashioned apron that might have once been white.

He flipped her over and knew immediately. _She was one of his_. Livvy Dufresne.

Jean-Paul gently tapped at her scratched white cheeks. "Livvy? Livvy?" Her respiration was shallow and labored; her mouth encrusted with vomit.

Her lashes fluttered for one second, and a raspy whisper, so quiet he nearly missed it, took all the strength she had. "Not Livvy," she responded. "_Becky_."

**Back at **_**OMG!**_**...**

The three former members of the now defunct _OMG!_ were still sitting at the conference table. The meeting with Mr. Lavigne did not quite go as each of them had secretly planned.

Hunter Lavigne and his hired hit man had taken control of the little room immediately upon entrance. Instead of being congratulated, instead of being given a pat on the back and a raise, the three were informed that _OMG!_ - in all its incarnations – had ceased to exist.

And they, were in fact, terminated. _Just. Like. That_.

Nanci had sputtered her outrage, reminded the men at the table just who was responsible for dragging the little rag out of the red and certainly well into the black these past few weeks. She'd sue for wrongful termination, she'd…

And then, he took off his tinted glasses and looked at her with those dead, colorless eyes as his lips curled into what might have been called a smile by someone more optimistic than she.

Something unspeakable was burning in those eyes, something so vile she had to turn from it. She tried to speak, but a large clog of fear took up residence in her throat and effectively closed it down.

"Ms. D'Rue," that hateful, mocking, cold voice echoed in the silence, "Or should I say, Ms. _Drue_, you have exposed World Vista Entertainment and _me_ – because I have very deep pockets - to a number of serious legal consequences due to your actions. Not only have you infringed upon the rights of some private citizens, you allowed innuendo and half-truths to be published to the detriment of those citizens."

Nunan spoke up. "That includes the digitally altered photographs." He threw several pictures on the table, before and after.

"As a result of your…shall we say, complete and utter lack of boundaries, professionalism and your utter lack of character, I am forced to shutter this magazine. That is my_ final_ decision."

He put his glasses back on, and the three breathed a sigh of relief. An icy grin stretched across his mouth. "Now, Mr. Nunan here has contracts for you to sign. I think I am being quite generous given the circumstances." He sat back; it was time for the lawyer to begin his spiel.

Nunan opened his leather briefcase, pulled out three sets of papers. "Each of these papers contains an irrevocable agreement. In return for your signatures, you each will get a year's salary and benefits, without cost to you. This will be paid within the next seven days. In return, you will never make a claim on World Vista, and on the companies for which it is a subsidiary or on Mr. Lavigne personally." He distributed the packets to each person.

"In addition, you are prohibited from selling any articles or speaking publicly about James Winthrop Frayne II, Trixie Belden Frayne, Madeleine 'Honey' Wheeler, Brian and Martin Belden, Diana Lynch, and Daniel Mangan, as well as their families. You will never discuss the terms of this agreement or any actions in this room. You are prohibited from discussing or selling any articles about Mr. Lavigne."

Amy was softly crying and her sniffles broke into Nunan's soliloquy. He gave her a hard stare. "Now you may take a few minutes to review the terms I just outlined and the confidentiality agreements."

Lavigne's cold voice broke in. "If you choose not to sign, or if you break the agreement, well, let's just say the consequences will not be very happy for you at _all_." The bored tone coupled with the underlying threat, and Nick was signing in the thirty gajillion places where his signature was required. He did not want to meet Lavigne in a dark alley. Nope. His lips were sealed. Bob-Whites? What Bob-Whites?

Amy scribbled her name next. A year's salary. She could start over. A nice quiet job somewhere where she never had to look at a gossip magazine again, like working in a coal mine or fracking.

Two spots of color rode high on Nanci's cheeks; the pen was clenched in fingers so tightly, they were white. Lavigne saw the signs of mutiny on her face; leaned over and whispered, "I'd sign it _if I were you, Ms. Drue_." The last words were uttered in a hiss, and he reminded her of a cobra, just waiting to strike and consume the hapless rat it had cornered.

And so, she signed with trembling fingers.

Afterwards, Nunan gave them a copy, clicked his briefcase shut, and instructed her to lock the door when she left and slip the key under the door.

Before he left, Hunter Lavigne turned to them, smiling in that cold way that reminded them of the grinning, sharp teeth of a man-eater. "We will be contacting ah, Mr. Paul Trent separately since he was not present. You will not discuss this with him, or among yourselves." With that, the door clicked and he was gone.

All three just sat silently in the office for a long while, each ruing the day they met Paul Trent and ever heard of Bob-Whites of the Glen. It was obvious. The mega-rich protected each other.

When they filed out, all that was left of the magazine was a shiny key on the floor of the office.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

It always amazed him, the Intensive Care unit. There were so many machines blinking and beeping; nurses and doctors buzzing about in a life-or-death ballet with so many lines and wires they attached to the small figure on the bed. It was hard to believe there was a person underneath it all.

Jean-Paul watched as the tech drew more blood; poor little thing, so much had been taken out of her already. The clothes had been stripped from her, placed in brown paper evidence bag. Swabs were taken of her mouth, vaginal and anal area; the dirt was collected from under her fingernails. Photographs were taken of every damn bruise that marred her lovely skin, including the one circling her ankle.

It burned his gut. _She'd been chained up like a dog. _

When he found her, half-frozen from her immersion in the cold water, incoherent and barely conscious, he pulled his cell out of his pocket and made an urgent request for assistance. She was shivering from the cold, yet he couldn't leave her to get a blanket from his car. She might end up in the river again.

He placed his coat over her, knowing it would have to be confiscated, knowing he was compromising possible evidence. Hours passed before he heard the sirens, but his watch told him only five minutes trickled by.

They took her away, Livvy Dufresne, who insisted she was Becky. He walked down to the river's edge, saw the wig half in the water, part of it a brassy blonde, the other brownish gray with mud. Using his cell phone, he took several pictures before fishing it out of the water, half afraid the current would sweep it away.

The detectives and forensic people were going over the scene now; it had taken several hours to contact the company that owned the house for permission to search it. It appeared someone had broken in through a cellar door, and used the basement as their own private dungeon of horrors. He didn't stay around for the investigation. He had to be near Livvy.

Jean-Paul leaned against the glass wall separating him from the pretty woman he rescued. Something about her clothes was bothering him, some tidbit that was tantalizing the corners of his mind. He tried to concentrate on it, but it kept slipping away, just out of reach.

He leaned his arm against the glass, his forehead resting against it, and trained his eyes on the small figure in bed. It would come to him, he sighed. In the meantime, he had a vigil to keep.

**In the limo in New York...**

He was staring out the darkened window, mentally going over his to do list. He stopped the publicity machine from feeding the frenzy of people that had nothing more important to do with their lives than stalk almost-Becky.

In a few days, maybe a week or two at the most, the simpering idiots would be on the newnownext thing. He lived through it in his own life, the cycles of fame. Poor little orphan, eccentric genius, recluse. After a while, people became bored and lost interest.

_They were all so damn predictable_.

He flipped open the file on Paul Trent. While a very tiny part of him was almost grateful to the man for bringing almost-Becky to him, the larger part insisted that they would have met anyway. It was kismet, karma, fate.

He touched a long finger to Trent's photograph. A curious man; he ruined a good job at a little daily and now subsisted by selling freaky articles to what one could only politely term 'the press.' He was due for a meeting tomorrow at _OMG!_ offices to go over the next issue.

Now, wouldn't Mr. Trent be surprised to find out who was _really_ waiting for him in the decrepit office?

He leaned back against the cushy limo seats with a grin. He would certainly make an…_impression_…on Mr. Trent.

**On a Challenger 605 jet over the Atlantic…**

Bob's voice came over the loudspeaker. "You can unbuckle your seat belts now, Bob-Whites and guests. We have attained maximum cruising altitude. Enjoy yourselves for the next several hours."

Mart was the first one to unbuckle. The takeoff in the Wheeler's newest corporate jet from Teterboro Airport in New Jersey was smooth and went a long way towards calming their nerves after the limo being swarmed in the City.

But his brother-in-law still hadn't told anyone where they were headed, and curiosity was slowly gaining a stranglehold on him. Patting Diana's hand (the closest he had gotten to her in a while), he stood up and stretched.

"Are you planning to reveal where you are hijacking us to?" he demanded of Jim. "I think we have all been pretty patient with you."

Jim just grinned. "And you wonder where Trixie gets her impatience from," he laughed. "C'mon over, everyone."

Seven pairs of eyes focused on him. "Aidan, Kaitlin, how are you doing?" He realized that the two probably had never flown in a luxurious, privately owned jet like this one. He realized a few short years ago, he had never ridden in one either. And now he could call one up at a moment's notice.

"Umm, takeoff was a bit nerve-wracking." The thrum of the engines, the g-forces; it was a wonder she didn't break Dan's hand.

"It was _so_ cool," Aidan enthused, and gave the first real smile to Jim since, well, since forever.

"But that still doesn't tell me where we're going, Mr. Devious." Mart briefly wondered whatever had happened to Mr. Honorable, before his brain caught up with his emotions. Oh yeah. He married Trixie.

"I rented an island in the Caribbean." Jim gazed at the stunned eyes of his friends and family. "I'm really tired of Paul Trent and that so-called magazine. I'm tired of being a free show for everyone in New York City. I'm tired of people taking my picture with their cell phones. And if I feel that way, I know all of you do too."

"You rented an island in the Caribbean. An island. In the Caribbean." Brian was amazed. Jim never flaunted his wealth. For him to do something so completely outrageous, he must really be under a lot of stress.

"Dad knew someone who knew someone who rents out his island. So, I just rented it for a weekend. It's very private, secluded and has a private airstrip. The staff there have all signed confidentiality agreements." Jim's green eyes were glowing.

"And how much did this little trip set you back, big brother?" Honey could not believe her full-blooded adopted brother had it in him to do something so uncharacteristic. After all, he was honorable, thrifty, trustworthy and _mostly _sane.

"Don't you worry about it, Honey. The island is really fantastic. There are five separate villas scattered around to ensure privacy, all pretty identical. For swimming, we have our choice of pools and beaches and lazy lagoons. There are about 30 fulltime staff there to take care of our every need. Now, when we get there you guys can decide who gets what villa, and who's sleeping with whom. They're all named after flowers – and since I'm paying, Trix and I have the Orchid. There's also, Rose, Jacaranda, Frangipani, Hibiscus and Lotus. Frangipani is the main villa with dining services, check in and all that."

Mart glanced at Diana, wondering what she was thinking about the sleeping arrangements. They still had not had a chance to talk, although Brian and Honey seemed to have reached some sort of rapprochement. Maybe this little jaunt of Jim's would be lovely time to get back together with his delectable Diana. He could only hope.

As everyone wandered back to their seats or, in Mart's case, to the small galley to rustle up some food, Trixie turned her clear blue eyes to stare into Jim's emerald green ones, and she offered up a little concession. "I was really scared in the limo before. All those people pounding on it, screaming, hysterical. If I have one more person take my picture _I_ will scream. It was terrifying, Jim. I'm glad we're getting away even if it's only for the weekend. At least Trent won't be able to get to us there."

Jim laced his fingers with hers. "They've got to find a way to stop all this nonsense, Trix. None of us asked for this. I'm not scared for myself, I can handle things, but I'm terrified for you, my sister and Di."

Dan crept up, loathe to interrupt the quiet conversation between his two friends. "Hey Jim," he started, and gulped over the large frog blocking his throat. It wasn't often he felt overwhelmed, but there you go. Not many people just upped and took an ex-gang member on a tropical weekend getaway…and included his girlfriend and her brother.

Jim looked up into Dan's serious, shy face_. Dan Mangan? Shy?_

"Thanks for inviting Kaitlin and Aidan. They're both really thrilled."

"Yeah, but did Aidan see the website?" Jim deadpanned. It was forever engraved in his mind, the picture of Honey and Aidan with the hot pink headline blazoned underneath.

Dan grinned back. "Yeah, he thought it was kind of cool to be the mystery man."

Jim snorted, and then chuckled. "Yeah, until people start asking him all kinds of personal questions at the urinal." He blew out a breath, and winked. "Let's just unwind, grab some beach time and figure out how we're going to take down Mr. Trent." His eyes gleamed with an unholy light. "All in a perfectly legal manner, of course."

Dan clapped him on the shoulder, and shrugged one of his own. "Would the Bob-Whites do it any other way?"

**On Rt. 3 in NJ heading toward the Lincoln Tunnel…**

Cilla Cecere leaned back against her seat, one well-manicured hand sliding up and down on the slippery material of the seat belt crossing her chest. Well, _supposed_ to be crossing her chest. Most times it settled right across her neck, and she occasionally had grisly mental pictures of Ryan slamming on the brakes, and the belt tightening and severing her head. Most women she knew had the same problem. It always came down to the boobs.

Turning her head so she caught Ryan's profile, she sighed. "That was _some _jet those kids took off in." The big red W/H logo on the tail…it must be nice just making a phone call and have a fleet of corporate jets at your disposal.

Ryan nodded his agreement. Smirking slightly, he taunted her. "Did unbuttoning those two top buttons on your blouse work in getting some information about where they're headed?"

She frowned; really, he was so gauche sometimes. "No, there was a woman at the counter. She didn't even recognize me!" Cilla sounded shocked.

"So you struck out with the sex goddess routine and with the _I'm on television_ shtick. Bad luck, toots."

"Well, I did overhear someone stating they were going somewhere warm and private," she offered up. The trip to Jersey wasn't a complete bust.

"Yeah, and that just narrows it down to everything under the equator," Ryan snorted.

Cilla opened her mouth to snap back, when her phone let out a musical tone that alerted her to an incoming text message from Jenny, her assistant. She read the message and breathed out an awed "_Wow_."

"Wow? Wow _what_?"

"After your smart-ass remarks, I don't think I'm going to share," she pouted.

"And I'm the driver, so you feel like taking a tour of Bayway Refinery? And after that, we can watch the moon and stars glinting off the sludge in the Passaic River," he threatened her, tongue-in-cheek.

She had to laugh. "Didn't we do that _last_ week? Anyway, Jenny's been monitoring the _OMG!_ website. She said it's been down almost all day with one of those stupid domain not found messages. When she tried again, a short note came up thanking all the fans for their support, but stating the magazine and website were ceasing publication immediately."

"What?" Ryan was so stunned, he nearly drove into the next lane.

"Ry! Eyes on the road!" Cilla gripped the handle above the door as Ryan brought the van back under control.

"What do ya think is going on Cil? Our research indicated the rag was printing extra copies and selling out. Why would the publisher pull the plug now? Doesn't make sense."

A little shiver snaked its way up Cilla's spine. "Something is going on, Ryan. I can feel it. Billionaires, a bevy of absolutely gorgeous Bob-Whites, gangs, secret getaways and now the magazine is history?" She took a deep breath. "I say we track down Paul Trent and have a little chat with him in the next few days."

Ryan nodded his head in agreement. "And I think _In the Know's_ lead story on the weekend edition should talk _all about_ our friends in the air. After all, where _else_ are their fans going to get info?"

Cilla tapped out the message to Jenny, and leaned her face against the cool window, imagining the ratings, and sighed. Now, if she only snag an interview with Jim and Trixie Frayne, their coup would be complete.


	28. Tabloid Trix Chapter 27

Tabloid Trix Chapter 27

Becky had convinced him. She talked through and quarreled with his plan, trying to make him see that it was wrong. It was sloppy. It would lead to…bad things.

Of course, once he calmed down, he could objectively examine her point of view. There were security cameras, other tenants, scarce as they were, in the old building. This was New York City, after all. The police would question the fired staff; and all paths would lead back to him.

_Not one of his brighter campaigns_.

He knew it, too, in that secret, rational corner of his mind; it made him fight that much more with Becky. He was _slipping_. His need to get to almost-Becky was overwhelming. His other desires, the ones Becky didn't know about, were mixing in and throwing him way off balance.

And she didn't hesitate to point it out. Or to take him to task about his strange tenseness since they left Montréal. Her blue eye glared with suspicion at him. Something must have happened in Montréal, and he hadn't told her yet.

He took pains to soothe her, to explain he was just eager to finish the project he and she had been working on for so long. To finally have his beautiful Becky in the flesh, whole again. To be able to look into two impossibly clear blue eyes, to touch her and have her touch him.

He didn't tell her he was missing his island, and the things he brought there; and especially the red, red geysers and the freedom he found. And the power - oh, the _power_ - over life and death.

It was more difficult in New York City. More traffic cameras to track movement; no rural island across from his house where he could take his little trophies to play with in the dead of the night. His fingers itched for the release he had yet to find in this massive hive of people.

It made him just a _little_ short-tempered.

He turned his powerful mind back to Paul Trent, and just how he was going to help him understand just how…foolish…his actions had been.

**Misto Cay, Caribbean**

Bright buttery sunlight streamed into the beautiful bedroom in the villa known as Lotus. Diana Lynch stretched and looked up at the mosquito netting on the ceiling, and wondered just where the hell she was.

A confused minute later, it all came flooding back to her when she turned to see Mart's face, peaceful in slumber, looking more boyish and endearing than he had any right to.

Her amethyst eyes roamed over him, from the tips of his blonde hair, the slight golden stubble on his cheeks and the strong line of his shoulders.

_They were both tired and a bit depressed as they made their way to the villa, escorted by their personal butler. Mart thanked the man and hurried him on his way, eager to talk to his Diana. Eager to clear whatever it was between them._

"_Umm, I guess I'll just turn in, Mart," she said when he came back. The villa was gorgeous, soothing to the eye and calming to the soul. _

"_Can we talk for a minute, Di?" When she looked up at him, a slight protest mirrored in her face, he continued. "Just a moment. It…it's the first time we had a chance to talk, alone, since all this nonsense began."_

_She didn't say anything; just gave a nod and settled herself on the comfortable, cushioned sofa that was gaily patterned with huge lotus blossoms. It should have looked ugly, loud and garish, but here…it just fit in._

_Mart sat on the low table in front of her, and gazed into her downcast face. Her magnificent eyes were hooded; and he just hoped she would listen to what he had to say. He grasped her long, slender hand, his fingers nervously playing with the little silver ring she always wore on her middle finger._

"_It's my fault, you know," he began and stopped when she raised her face, her amethyst eyes full of confusion._

"_Paul Trent and that rag? I don't see how, Mart." Why on earth would Mart think it was his fault? Trent was a sleaze._

_He shook his head. "No, not the magazine stuff. I mean the other stuff. Between you and me," a flush rose in his face, as vibrant as any of Trixie's._

_His touch was creating the most amazing feelings in her: longing, security and a surprising coil of heat that threatened to overrule her determination to be a real partner to him, and not just a convenient bed partner. She untangled her hands from his, sat back a bit and folded them primly in her lap._

"_I'm listening."_

_She wasn't going to make this easy on him. His blue eyes raked over her, sitting there, eyes downcast, waiting for him to begin. Except Mr. Walking-Dictionary couldn't find any words in the vast vocabulary he had at his disposal._

_He cleared his throat, raking a nervous hand through his short blonde locks. "Do you want to marry me?" He almost clapped a hand over his mouth. That certainly was not what he was going to say. _

_Diana raised her head and stared at him, her violet eyes as wide as he'd ever seen them. "Wha…what did you say Mart?" Ohmygod. He wasn't proposing, was he? _

_He twisted his hands together, trying to mitigate the disaster that was sure to follow his ill-chosen words. "I meant, do you want to, like, marry me in the future? Not right now," he hastened to add. He almost groaned aloud. Superman himself wouldn't be able to get him out of the trench he was digging._

"_So, you're not proposing to me," Diana said, in her soft voice. _

"_Not…not now, Di," he pleaded. "I love you. I've loved you just about forever. I do want…"_

_A flicker appeared in those eyes that haunted him since he was seven years old. He couldn't get a good read on her, couldn't tell whether she was about to jump up and storm off, or worse yet, tell him she didn't want to marry him. Ever._

"_Mart, you've been pushing me away for months." Her soft eyes filled with tears. "Months. The only time we communicate is in bed. A marriage, a life together, to me at least, is not based on how compatible we are sexually. That's just a small part." She tucked a long strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. "It's not what I want in a boyfriend, either. I don't want to be a friend with benefits." She flushed. "If that's all I wanted, I could take care of things myself."_

_Mart looked down at his hands. He wanted to protest, wanted to tell her she meant more to him than anyone else in the world, that he could _never_ treat her that way. As he thought over their last few dates, he came to the stunning realization that her words rang true._

"_God, Di, I'm so sorry." Agitated, he stood, then sat right back down, hard. "I do love you. So very, very much it hurts sometimes." His blue eyes glistened with tears. "I never meant to make you feel like that. I have so much, I don't know, stored up inside of me, all these feelings. I want what Jim and Trix have. I want that with you. Only you."_

_She placed a slender hand on his knee, their jeweled gazes colliding. "I want that too. Don't you see, Mart? What they have, what Jim did for her, God, it's the stuff legends are made of. But it's _their _legend. A girl can be a little envious of that. It doesn't mean _I _want it. We have to write our own story. And my story, our story, doesn't include getting married now."_

"_Could you ever forgive me? Oh God, Di, I'm such a dolt." His hands crept to hers, interlacing the fingers. He was just glad she didn't pull away._

"_Yeah, I forgive you," she replied, threatening tears finally spilling. "I love you, Martin Belden."_

_He released her hands, brought his thumbs up to wipe away the drops sparkling on her cheeks. "And I love you, Diana Lynch."_

_When their lips met this time, it was with a gentle promise of a bright future. _

**Back in New York City…**

That bitch wasn't answering her cell phone; neither were the other two members of the so-called Editorial Board of _OMG!_.

_She freakin' stood him up!_

He waited for over an hour at the office, pacing back and forth, continuing to try to open the locked door. Each time, he hoped that magically, the doorknob would turn all the way and he'd find himself in the decrepit office.

Instead, it remained stubbornly stuck after a mere quarter-turn. Every new attempt caused his volatile temper to climb higher and higher, until he was slamming out of the building. His face was violently red, and people moved out of his way on the sidewalk.

He kept trying them all, using up the expensive minutes on his prepaid cell phone every time he rang through to their chirpy voicemail messages. His mind, so full of red, kept whipping him along the street.

_They better not be trying to pull a fast one. So help me God, I'll kill them all. _ His hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists. He just knew they were trying to steal his story. Bastards. He'd show them. They thought he was stupid, but he sent each and every story and photo to himself through the mail before they were published, and they were all in sealed envelopes and dated by none other than the USPS. It was as good as a copyright.

The odor of stale beer caught at his senses, and he made a detour into the run-down tavern.

**Misto Cay, Caribbean…**

Aidan was lounging by the infinity pool, his dark shades in place and a cool, reserved expression on his handsome face. Inside, however, he was completely awed by the island, and the fact that he and his sister were simply invited along like it was no big deal.

The Bob-Whites had straggled into the dining room at the main house at breakfast. Aidan was busy reading the full-color, thick brochure that enumerated all the island had to offer. Personal butlers with each villa. White-sand beaches. SCUBA equipment. Jet-skis. A guest could choose to dine on gourmet meals every day in the main house, or have the cook prepare something in their personal villa.

There was a small infirmary, staffed with a nurse-practitioner. A masseuse. And of course, maid service so that one didn't have to lift an over-privileged, lazy finger to do anything as taxing as making one's bed.

He smirked sarcastically at himself. It _was_ paradise.

Except the one person that would really make it paradise for him entered the dining room with sleepy, satisfied eyes; very kissed looking lips; a slight flush highlighting her high cheekbones, and a love bite on her neck. And her husband was smiling at her with pure male satisfaction.

Made him want to gag.

The decision was made to meet back at the main house for dinner, and to discuss 'the issue.' He thought it was pretty damn funny to see his picture in the gossip column online as Honey's mystery man. Kaitlin, however, was not at all amused by the dredging up of Dan's past, or the allegations of drugs and sex among the seven.

Kaitlin. His sister was wild about Daniel Mangan, and judging by the stars in his eyes, he was crazy about her, too. Aidan wondered why he was sleeping in Rose Villa with his sister, while Dan had Jacaranda all to himself. No parents, no constraints. They could be together, if they wanted to, and it was very obvious they did. What was holding them back?

A pretty little maid interrupted his thoughts with her musical accent. "Can I get you anything, Sir?" she giggled, blushing a little at the handsome young man relaxing by the pool.

Aidan peeked over the rim of his sunglasses at the cute girl, who appeared around his age. _Hmmm. Might be an interesting day or two_, he mused, and gave her a wide, sexy grin.

**Back in New York City…**

He threw down a couple of cheap scotches, and silently reflected that that's why they call it rotgut. His belly was burning as it was, before he stopped in the bar, and now he was really in a significant amount of pain. Trent wondered if he was getting an ulcer, and damn, if he was, the crappy magazine was going to get hit with a large lawsuit. Pain and suffering, loss of wages, copyright infringement, plagiarism; hell, if he was married he'd throw in loss of consort.

He pushed his way out after leaving money on the bar; no tip for the bored bartender who was more interested in watching the game on the old, flickering cathode-ray set than fulfilling his customers' needs.

As soon as the worn sneakers hit the pavement, he was lighting up a cigarette. As he trudged through the not-quite-dusk, he kept one arm pressing on his abdomen while the other was busily engaged in the task of repeatedly removing and reinserting the cigarette after every deep inhale and exhale.

By the time he smoked it down to the filter, he was home.

Trent stubbed the butt out on the cracked and filthy steps leading into what was optimistically called the lobby. Before he opened the door, he raised his head to the flickering red sign. Apartments. Cheap Apartments for Rent.

He almost laughed aloud.

The lobby consisted of some cracked linoleum, a black and white checked pattern popular in the early fifties. There was a listing, dirty sofa that once might have been green, but was now sort of brownish. It really should be posted with a bio-hazard warning.

In the corner was a large cage, the check-in. Nobody was manning it. There was a heavy-duty mesh screen on the two exposed sides, and a small slot to push money through. On the side of the mesh was a buzzer to contact the slob who was, ostensibly, the manager. The elevator, off to one side, had a yellowing out of order sign on it.

As he trudged up the cracked steps, he thought about the little house he used to rent in Sleepyside. A miniscule yard, but the air was clear and the house was clean. He didn't have the stale odors of onions, garlic and old sex to contend with. Nor did he have to carefully watch where he was stepping, avoiding the used condoms and the landings that were used as urinals.

Apartments? Hell no. He knew what it was; his Cheap Apartment for Rent. It was a place for hookers to take their next john, for people that stayed a couple of weeks and flitted out in the dead of the night, leaving their meager belongings that the manager greedily scoffed up and sold.

_Flophouse._

An old word, but so much more descriptive than the more PC 'transient hotel'.

He inserted his key into the lock in the beat-up old door, with the painted-on number that was cracked and peeling off, and stepped into his palatial _apartment_, he thought with a sarcastic snort.

Of course, he never realized the throne room was always the place that evil lurked, grew and flourished.

**Misto Cay…**

Brian was showering, washing off the salt and sand before they all met for dinner. He couldn't believe the absolute fun, the joy they all experienced today on the island. It was _much_ too long since they had a carefree day like that.

They all met at the small jetty, and soon were out on the tranquil, turquoise waters on the most amazing jet-skis. God, those things could move. He loved the spray of salt water in his face, the wind whipping by, the sun beating down on his limbs. They explored the island on water, stopping here and there to jump in and cool off, have a couple of races and just relax.

As the multiple shower-heads pulsated against him, he recalled how he and Honey smoothed the sunblock on each other under one of the thatched-hut cabanas scattered about the beaches. His large hands on her silky skin, working in the smooth lotion; her own slender hands, cool to the touch, on him, so tremendously erotic that he was surprised he didn't ravish her right then and there.

The pleasurable day was playing out in his mind's eye, so that he never heard the glass door open, never felt the little cool breeze, but only experienced the thrill of her sultry voice and her magic hands sliding around his waist.

_Dinner_ could damn well wait. Paul Trent could damn well wait. In fact, the whole damn world could wait…

Kaitlin was brushing her hair when the peremptory knock on her door ushered in the freshly-showered and shaved brother she loved so well.

"Wow. Some set-up. Are you going to be able to go back to our tiny apartment?" Aidan looked around in awe. His sister was seated before a huge vanity, a triple mirror reflecting her lovely face. The room was nearly as big as their whole apartment in New York.

"This is a vacation," she grinned. "Real life always beckons from afar."

He lowered himself onto the fainting couch, an almost identical grin splitting his face. "Yeah, it does, doesn't it? But I could get used to this, real fast."

"Well, Ace, unless you are planning to kidnap and compromise some fabulously wealthy heiress, who will fall madly in love with your wicked ways, it's beer and Atlantic City for us!"

Aidan snorted out a laugh. Putting one hand to his forehead, he said dramatically, "But I am now used to private islands and Cristal! Oh, the horror of it!"

Kaitlin had to giggle. Sobering suddenly, Aidan sat up. "You know Kait, I would have gone and stayed in the other villa in case you and Dan wanted to…" A slight flush bloomed on his cheeks, "You know, stay here."

The brush stilled in her hands. Was there anything in life more uncomfortable than discussing one's sex life with a sibling? The only answer she could come up with was discussing the same subject with parents. "Ah, Ace. Dan and I…uh, we are taking things slowly." Both of them recognized staying in the same villa would not be conducive to their celibate agreement.

"Uh, Kait, isn't that kind of," he groped for words, "Locking the barn door after the horse escaped? Or is it a cow?" he mused.

She was surprised into a gasp of laughter. "Geez, Aidan, don't pull any punches because I am your sister," she giggled again. Her merry eyes met his in the mirror. "Dan is special and you know what? So am I."

Aidan stood, walked over to his sister and put his hands on her shoulders, stooping to plant a soft kiss on the top of her head. ""bout time you recognized that, Miss McCourt. You are very special."

She leaned back against him, and raised a soft hand to pat his. "Thanks, Ace. I love you."

"And I think you're my _favorite_ sister."

"Hey! I'm your _only_ sister!"

"See?"

**Paul Trent's apartment, New York City…**

He stepped through the open door, flipped on the dim light, and locked it, and the chain lock he installed himself. Flimsy, but at least it would buy him time if any of his law-abiding neighbors decided to break in.

A cultured voice came out of the shadows. "Mr. Paul Trent? I've been waiting a very long time to speak to you."

Trent staggered back a couple of steps, his back against the door. "Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?"

Hunter Lavigne stepped into the pool of light. "Mr. Trent. Is that a polite way to greet the man who signs those pitiful paychecks of yours?" He extended his hand, and Trent was surprised into shaking it. The man's hand was strong, with a cool grip.

"My name is Hunter Lavigne, and the late, lamented _OMG!_ was once a publication of a subsidiary of mine. World Vista Entertainment, I believe." His face was still in the shadows, indistinct.

"I know that name," Trent conceded. Everyone knew about the most famous wealthy recluse since Howard Hughes. He immediately picked up on the reference to the magazine. "What do you mean, late lamented? The magazine is doing _great_."

"No doubt, thanks to you and your articles about …who were they now? Oh yes, the Bob-Whites of the Glen. Very nicely written stories, Mr. Trent." A long arm shot out, pointing to the wall plastered with photos. "You seem to be obsessed with the blonde, in particular." Indeed, he had taken his time in the room before Trent arrived, examining all the photographs tacked up on the wall. The majority of them were of almost-Becky. He was very appreciative of that. He tracked her progress from a child in a paper skirt all the way up to, well, now.

Trent relaxed a bit. Maybe Lavigne was setting him up for something big. After all, D'Rue and the others probably had some sort of contractual agreement. "You didn't answer my question about the magazine," he persisted.

"_You_ didn't answer my question about the blonde."

Paul gave a dry cackle. "Miss Nosy Parker? She's been a thorn in my side forever. If it wasn't for her, those kids and their rich parents, I'd be an investigative reporter for the _Times _or the _Post_. This," he gestured to the wall, "Is just a little payback. Now to use the immortal words of Hannibal Lecter, _quid pro quo_."

Hunter Lavigne actually smiled. _Oh, and if you only knew, Mr. Trent._ "I ceased publication of the magazine yesterday and the website has stopped polluting the internet," he said in that calm, cool voice.

Trent was flabbergasted. "Why in God's name would you do that? The articles were blasting circulation into the hundreds of thousands, if not millions."

Lavigne barked out a short, mirthless laugh. "God has nothing at all to do with the decision to terminate publication, Paul." A pause. "May I call you Paul? After all, I do feel some modicum of gratitude to you for bringing um, Trixie, to my attention." He stepped fully into the light and took off his glasses.

Not looking up, Trent sneered. "You may be rich, _Hunter_, but so is Trixie's husband, and the family she married into. If you think you can swoop in and pry her away from the redhead, you are very mistaken. They may have just legally gotten married this year, but he's been married to her in just about every way since she was thirteen and he was fifteen."

Lavigne snapped his fingers; put his hands into his coat pockets. "Her husband means less than nothing to me. She's merely sleeping, awaiting me to awaken her. _Becky._" He breathed out the name reverently.

The retort died on Paul Trent's lips as he looked up and into the colorless eyes of madness.

**Misto Cay, Caribbean…**

They decided to eat outside, on the elegant patio with its cheerful lanterns casting a magical glow over everything. The sumptuous meal began with conch chowder, chock full of tender conch and vegetables. Baked crab and baked bonefish paired with peas and rice johnnycakes came next, topped off with chikoo pudding for dessert.

Even Mart was stuffed.

The warm evening, gorgeous setting and utter relaxation of the nine young adults at the table brought a smile to their servers. They silently disappeared, leaving the young ones to their conversation and the wordless looks passing between them.

Jim didn't want to bring up the subject, but he did. He didn't want the joking, fun and joy in each other's company to end, but he had to say it. He watched as the expressions on his family and friends' faces changed from bliss to hunted. He was sure his own face reflected the same.

"We need to discuss Paul Trent," he began, the man's name tasting like ashes in his mouth. "And what we need to do about him."

**Paul Trent's apartment, New York City…**

He watched as Trent's eyes narrowed on him, rejoiced in the look of fear that passed over the man's countenance. "I wouldn't try that, if I were you, Paul," he said in the same conversational tone as one would state 'the sun is shining'. "You wouldn't like the consequences at all."

Trent stopped sidling to the door leading out to the hallway and freedom. No doubt he wouldn't make it to the door. Lavigne was mad, off his rocker and unpredictable, He couldn't help the stray thought that passed through his almost frozen brain…_what a story this would be!_

"I think you are wondering why I came to visit you personally with this news. The other staff was discharged, with a great termination package, if I do say so. And an ironclad confidentiality agreement."

"I'll be happy to sign anything you have with you," Trent spoke, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.

"Oh, Paul, I'm absolutely sure of that. However, the research on your background indicates you have quite a problem adhering to promises. I can't possibly let you hurt Becky any more than you have already."

_He thinks Trixie Frayne is somebody named Becky. _A deep shudder ran through the man. _He thinks she is this Becky and he's crazy._

Lavigne wagged an index finger in his face and made little tsk-ing sounds. "Your articles have made it very difficult for me to get to Becky. Very difficult. People, fans, cameras everywhere in this damn city. Never a chance to get her alone."

"You…you shut the magazine down to stop the publicity." The import was staggering.

He didn't like Trixie Belden Frayne. Didn't like the Bob-Whites of the Glen, didn't like the privileged Wheeler and Lynch families, or the homey Leave-It-to-Beaverness of the Beldens. He wanted, wished, hoped to take them all down several pegs, show them what it was like to be Paul Trent.

He didn't wish her _dead._

**Misto Cay, Caribbean…**

Dan spoke up. His words were measured; he kept a tight rein on the Irish temper that was threatening to explode; on the vocabulary he was sure would turn the very air they breathed blue.

"I know our families have contracted with Mr. Ramsay to try and shut the magazine down," he began, his dark eyes growing ever darker. Under the table, he grabbed one of Kaitlin's hands in his own. The mere touch of her hand grounded him in the present.

"But I've been researching this. Why don't we initiate a class-action suit against Paul Trent _personally_? Not the magazine, but against him. Defamation and privacy laws do state that a person can sue if another person if they prove he deliberately set out to do harm."

Mart chimed in. "Yeah, but Trent doesn't _have_ anything. According to what the lawyers are telling us, he's living in a cheap room in a not-very-nice section of the City. It's not like we could win cash from him."

Trixie's clear blue eyes began to sparkle. "You may have something there, Dan. We don't _need_ whatever meager assets Trent may have. We _can_ tie him up in court, though. He'll either have to get a Legal Aid attorney or appear _pro se_."

Brian laced his fingers behind his neck, and gave a quizzical look to his sister. "_Pro se_? What's that?" He gave a laugh. "I'm familiar with Latin terms, but more like _pectus excavatum_."

"It means he would act as his own lawyer in the court. And you know what the old saying is about that: a man who acts as his own attorney has a fool for a client." Dan's lip curled up. "We could ply him with injunctions and torts and whatever else, and maybe get a gag order."

Jim nodded. "It could work. I know Mr. Ramsay is going full-steam ahead with shutting the magazine down, but we might be able to shut Trent down." A wicked glint came into his eyes. "Maybe permanently."

**Paul Trent's apartment, New York City…**

Trent knew he had to chance it. He had to try and escape. Hell, he even had to contact Trixie Frayne and tell her she was starring in some madman's fantasy.

_It wasn't supposed to be like this_.

His eyes slid to the doorway. So close, yet it felt like a chasm opened up in the room. The other side of the room, the side facing the alleyway, had the rusting, broken fire escape. He could try to make it there, but he figured if he put his full weight on it, the whole thing would go crashing down, and he'd be dead anyway.

He briefly thought about calling for help, but who would care, or even hear? The building was alive with moans, groans, screaming fights and the myriad sounds humans could make when committing the worst sort of atrocities on one another. After a while, it just became a part of the landscape.

Lavigne saw the little weasel eying the possible escape routes; almost heard the whirrs and clicks of his tiny mind. Grasping the implement hidden in the deep pocket of his coat, he balanced on the balls of his feet as adrenaline rushed through him.

Ready…set…Trent was up in a flash, going for the door, but Lavigne was too quick, too experienced. He crashed against Trent, pushing him to the door and twisting his arm behind his back. He had the great satisfaction of hearing the bone snap.

With the other hand, he plunged the sharp syringe into Trent's side.

Trent felt the agony of the bone breaking, felt the burning sensation in his side. Almost immediately, he felt his muscles go lax, as Lavigne half dragged him to the bed and pushed him on there, face down.

"Now, Mr. Trent, I will explain what is going to happen to you." He rolled the man over, took a bit of time arranging him nicely on the bed. "I'm sure you have heard of succinylcholine. It's a very powerful muscle relaxant, used in anesthesia. Oh, and for murder, too. You should know that little fact. Almost untraceable. Well, it doesn't work as swiftly as when given intravenously; due to circumstances, I had to give you an intramuscular injection. We have some time together."

Lavigne stood, started turning on all the lights. "It works by suffocating the victim. All the muscles in your body are simply become paralyzed, until the muscles controlling your breathing don't allow the necessary expansion and contraction of your chest. It takes, oh, maybe twenty minutes to a half-hour to die. And you're fully conscious of what's happening."

Trent's eyes were staring straight ahead as he listened to the calm, almost serene voice of Hunter Lavigne. He heard a rustling sound, and Lavigne came into his line of sight. He had shed his clothes and was nude. "Oh, don't worry," he giggled. "You're not at all my type." He drew closer, and Trent could see the shiny, sharp scalpel.

"We're going to do a little experiment, you and I, Mr. Trent. Will you perish from suffocation, or will you perish from exsanguination? I'll try to be merciful, Mr. Trent. I'll try and show you the mercy you withheld from Becky."

The thin, razor-sharp blade made a long, deep incision and immediately, the scarlet rivers began to run. Trent's eyes watched as it flashed again and again, and the acts in the little room became unspeakable.

His mind left his body long before his heart stopped beating.


	29. Tabloid Trix Chapter 28

Tabloid Trix Chapter 28

**Crabapple Farm…**

Helen Belden had a guilty pleasure. She really felt bad about her secret vice, especially after everything that happened with the children. She tried to rationalize it by telling herself that celebrities knew the type of life they were getting into, while the Bob-Whites and their families were innocent bystanders.

She was addicted, and like most addicts, hid it from the family. Peter was busy out in the barn, building her the studio she always yearned for. Bobby was totally engrossed in _Modern Warfare 97_, or whatever number the franchise was up to now. That left the flat-screen television in her bedroom free, and better yet, uninterrupted.

A slight flush rose unbidden as she snicked the lock on the door, picked up the remote, and parked herself on her bed against a mound of pillows and soft cushions. A quick press of the button marked 'cable', and the upbeat, instantly recognizable theme of _In the Know_ filled the room.

That pretty Cilla Cecere came on, her long caramel hair in an elegant upsweep, and her million-dollar legs flashing in a brief, tasteful short skirt that matched the pretty suit jacket and pink camisole. Helen folded her hands in her lap and glued her bright blue eyes to the screen.

"Tonight, on _In the Know_," Cilla's smiling voice was glossing over the intros, as the screen panned over a big, black limousine surrounded by screaming people. "You might think Justin Bieber or Rob Pattinson is getting mobbed, but you'd be wrong. Just who is in this car, and what connection do they have to _this_ jet, taking off from a little airport in New Jersey?" The picture switched to the jet taking to the skies, with the W/H Inc. logo clearly visible.

"We'll have all that, and more, when _In the Know_ returns after these words from our sponsors."

Helen sat there, frozen, her brain denying what her eyes had just seen. On national television. As the sponsors' words played out, unheard, she waited for the program to return to the air. _There are a lot of private jets with similar logos. The picture was kind of grainy. Maybe I was mistaken. _

Of course, when the show returned, the first story was about another Hollywood bust-up. Under normal circumstances, Helen would have sympathized with the wronged party, and a tiny little part of her would be smug in her love for Peter, his love for her, and the family they created together. She picked up one of the throw pillows on the bed, kept turning it round and round with her restless, nervous hands.

The next story chronicled the latest deliciously horrifying antics of the child star who was in a free-fall from grace as an adult, and then Cilla was back, her lovely voice teasing. "Have you figured out the identity of the person or persons in the limo yet? We'll tell you all that and more, after these words."

Helen banged her head against the headboard in frustration. _More commercials_. And then Cilla was on, whispering secrets directly to you, making you feel like you were simply having a cup of coffee with her and catching up on all the latest news.

The camera panned to the three published issues of _OMG!_, lingering slightly on each lurid cover. "You may recognize this magazine from your newsstand, supermarket or other retailer. _OMG! _ was an upstart gossip magazine that never quite got off the ground." There was that pregnant pause, "Until recently, when they started publishing a series of articles about a group of young adults we're going to call _The Billionaires' Kids Club_."

**Paul Trent's apartment building…**

"Nice place," Ryan Hanson remarked, all facetiousness. While the segment was airing tonight, he and Cilla were out trying to get some interviews and were not having even a smidgen of success.

None of the now-terminated editorial staff of _OMG!_ deigned to give them the time of day, never mind a behind-the-scenes scoop, even if it meant ignoring a veiled reference to how being on television might enhance their now non-existent careers.

Calls to World Vista Entertainment, the parent corporation of the defunct magazine, were answered with a terse, "The announcement on the website is the only comment we are providing regarding ceasing publication of _OMG!_."

It was blind luck they even found Trent's address; Ryan remembered vaguely that he thought Trent might have applied to the show as a writer. Since Trent was inexperienced, his application was put to the side; Ryan was a packrat and there it was, in the mess he called his office.

Cilla approached the mesh cage, intoning in a sepulchral voice, "It was a dark and stormy night…"

A glance inside the cage through what she assumed was bulletproof glass showed a filthy little cubicle, with a 1998 nudie calendar yellowing on the wall, and a half-eaten sub sandwich that had seen better days. Pulling her blouse over her finger, she depressed the buzzer that sounded faintly in another room.

Surprise, surprise. No-one came.

She leaned on the buzzer again; it worked, they heard it, but the cage remained stubbornly empty. The two stood there, wondering what to do next when a working girl and her 'appointment' entered. Cilla remarked to the heavily-made up woman, "No-one's answering."

The woman rolled her eyes, took a few dollars and pushed them through the slot in the glass. "Den just leave him duh money, go up ta duh fifth and grab an empty room," she explained. She looked at Ryan. "If ya wanna wait fer a bit, we kin have a threesome." She winked at Cilla, and sauntered off.

Ryan tried, really tried, not to burst out laughing like a lunatic, but he couldn't hold back. Not when Cilla had the most amazing look, a cross between outrage and outright amusement, on her face. The laughter bubbled up and out, and rang through the poor excuse for a lobby.

"C'mon, laughing boy," Cilla snorted, and began to climb the stairs. "The least you can do is escort me upstairs."

Ryan, wiping the tears from his merry eyes, followed her up. "How much you gonna charge me for this?"

Rolling her eyes, she just sniffed and turned, leading the way to Trent's apartment, hoping he was home and would be amenable to answering a few questions.

**Misto Cay, Orchid Villa…**

James Winthrop Frayne II was leaning on the frame of opened French doors, his long legs crossed at the ankles, the balmy tropical breeze cooling their beautiful bedroom. There were, it seemed, billions of stars twinkling in the sky, so many more than you could see in the City.

There may be a million more things to do, and maybe the City never slept, but Jim couldn't help thinking he much preferred the night sky and the Milky Way to the bright, harsh lights from the City that cancelled out their loveliness.

The day was wonderful, in a tiring way, even the discussion about Trent. At least they had a plan. Even Ia…Aidan agreed it sounded pretty good, although Jim deduced Aidan was still secretly amused at being named Honey's mystery man.

Jim sighed, and rolled his eyes. He saw the look Aidan gave Trixie, before the shutters came down in the other man's eyes. He recognized it immediately; it was the same look he himself sported before that brilliant day when he spilled it all out to his Trix in a school parking lot.

His lips curved up as he remembered that day, and that evening when Trixie set out to seduce him. He cast aside his cloak of honorability without even blinking an eye.

"_Trixie? Are you done yet?" Jim knocked at his bedroom door. It was awfully quiet in there. He hoped she didn't fall asleep or something. _

_A muffled voice responded. "Jim, I need your help, can you come in for a second?" _

_She probably needs help with a zipper or something. Or the toilet. It's probably running again. I need to let Dad know so he could get the plumber in. __He pushed open the door and stepped into his own bedroom. He saw her clothes on the floor, not that he expected anything else. But he didn't see her. "Trixie?" _

_She pushed the door closed and locked it. Leaning indolently against the hard wood, she watched his eyes widen and the emerald deepen as he turned around with a question that died before it was born. _

_Trixie. She was leaning against his door, clad only in some tiny blue panties and some sort of silky top that barely reached her waist. There was a vast expanse of skin between the end of that top and the beginning of those panties. And right there, right where his eyes zeroed in on it like a sweet target, was that silver dangle that haunted his dreams night after night. Before he_ _realized what he was doing, his fingers reached out and lightly brushed it. He couldn't control the tremor as they brushed against the taut, toned, __naked __skin of her belly. _

_Trixie's own hands, pressed against the door, slid to Jim's, and placed each hand on the side of her hips, right where she wanted them. __For now.__ Her hands slid up his arms and around his neck, and she actually stood on his feet to reach up to his face. _

_She kissed his jaw, smelled his cologne and proceeded to lightly kiss her way to his ear. "Jim?" Her voice was throaty, womanly, thick. "I decided I want dessert before dinner. And Jim?" she added, whispering so only he could hear. "I've been on the pill since I was 17. Waiting. For you."_

Just the thought of it, and he was becoming unbearably aroused. How had he ever managed without her sweet body pressed up to his, night after night? Lying in bed with her, talking late at night, that look in her eyes just for him. A look that had always been _just for him_. Only, he was too scared or too stupid to realize it.

She hadn't been frightened when he tumbled her into his bed, that first time. Her first time, and his too. She was his Trixie, full of energy, enthusiasm and god, so beautiful, her voice so sultry, so seductive and she wanted him. _Only him_. It heated him up from the inside out, and it still did.

Afterwards, he couldn't feel guilty. She was everything, just everything to him, and making love with her was more amazing than any fantasy he was able to conjure up in those dark, lonely days apart from her.

"Jim?" Her quiet voice interrupted his musings, and he turned to face her and gulped.

Her long spirals of gold caught at the light from the moon, as did her big blue eyes. She had on a long nightgown, made of the thinnest, finest white cotton; so thin he could see the outline of her body, tantalizing him. Her lips were curved in that special smile she reserved just for him.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," his voice rasped out. His intense green gaze caught her cerulean one, would not let go.

The tiny tendrils of a sensuous web were spinning between them. He was awash in the soft, silvery light, and she had to catch her breath. He was so tall, so strong, so gorgeously _male_. And he was _hers_. "You are all I want," she breathed out at last, her voice catching as it did when she was immeasurably moved.

As if in slow motion, they met in the middle of the big room, unable to glance away, their eyes colliding, locked. When he claimed her lips, those soft, lush full lips, when her tongue slid along his, he was lost. Every single glorious, virile, male molecule of his was driving him to complete himself with her. Only with her. Forever, with her.

'Til death do them part.

**Crabapple Farm…**

She was frozen. The night wasn't especially cold, but she could feel the chill creeping into her bones, making her shiver and shake.

The television was blaring on, long after _In the Know_ signed off. Some silly game show, but she didn't see it. The images from the program, the sound of Cilla Cecere's voice; it was all burned into her brain, as sure if someone took a hot branding iron and stamped it there.

Pictures of Matt and Maddie at some social event in the City. _The private billionaire and his high-society wife._ Pictures of Ed and Sharon at the same event _– the man and his wife who went from nothing to one of the richest families in the nation._

Helen would have dealt with that; after all, her friends were extremely wealthy and did have social and business obligations. Their photographs had graced various charity events and business events over the years. She supposed it was a necessary part of doing business; after all, when Peter was named president of the bank, they had to step up to country-club membership and Peter schmoozed with the business leaders in Sleepyside rather frequently at chamber of commerce meetings and the like.

She was not prepared for the silky voice explaining how the children were kept out of the limelight – _until now_. How ridiculously good-looking they all were, how tight was their friendship; speculating as to why Matthew Wheeler and Edward Lynch raised their children far from the harsh scrutiny of the paparazzi.

She was not prepared for the mob scene at the limo in front of the apartment house where the kids lived; of seeing crying and screaming people beating at the car with hands and fists, screaming the names of her sons – all of them, those of her body, and those of her heart.

And her daughter. Her beautiful daughter, who had not a shred of vanity whatsoever, plastered in full living 42 inch color across millions of television screens while the hostess' voice provided more fuel to the fire that was BWG mania.

"The beautiful woman you see here is Trixie Belden _Frayne_. Yes, sorry girls, not Jim's sister, but his very new _wife._ From all we can gather, Jim and Trixie have had special feelings for each other since they were very young adolescents." A pause. "We'll delve into _their_ relationship, and the relationships of all of the privileged members of the…Billionaires' Kids Club in our next few shows. And, we'll have some special information about Trixie Frayne that will astound you."

Helen's hand was shaking as she telephoned the Manor House.

She vowed to herself she would make Paul Trent pay.

**Paul Trent's apartment…**

Ryan couldn't resist needling Cilla all the way up the numerous flights of steps to Trent's floor. It was just too delicious, the infamous Cilla Cecere being mistaken for a working girl. Not even a high-class call girl, but a common, ordinary street 'ho.

"Two bucks, Cilla. Come on. It's the best offer you'll have tonight," he wheedled. God, he wished he was recording this.

She arched a brow and remarked very casually over her shoulder, "Watch out for the…oh, too late. _Sorry._" She giggled as Ryan stepped on a discarded condom.

"Oh. _Gross_!" He began to shake his foot wildly, hoping to dislodge the offending item. "You did that on purpose!"

She fluttered her eyelashes. "_Moi?_ I think not."

As they walked down the hallway, Ryan scraped his shoe on the filthy rug. "These were my favorite shoes," he moaned. "Now I have to throw them away."

Cilla stopped in front of the battered door with barely discernible number painted on. "Shush. Mr. Trent?" She knocked on the door. "Paul Trent? It's Cilla Cecere from _In the Know._"

No response.

She knocked harder. "Paul? Mr. Trent?" The door swung open slightly, but a head did not peek out. Something warm and coppery wafted out of the room, and Ryan grabbed Cilla and put her behind him.

"Trent? Are you okay in there?" He turned to Cilla. "I don't like this, Cil. Stay behind me."

He pushed the door open, and stepped into hell.


	30. Tabloid Trix Chapter 29

Tabloid Trix Chapter 29

They were detained at the Precinct headquarters for hours, Cilla in one room and Ryan in another, while the detectives hammered at them. Making them go over that… horror time and time again, until they both believed they would never, ever be able to close their eyes and sleep again.

_The door swung open and Ryan stepped into the brightly lit room, with Cilla close behind. The walls were splattered red, as if someone was madly flicking a scarlet-filled paintbrush around. Cilla's eyes went to the bed, and she vaguely heard a sound arising from her throat while her mind seemed to float far, far away._

_Ryan shoved them both out of there, calling 911. He didn't remember what he said. Didn't remember the tremble in his voice. All he could remember was bending over in the fetid hallway and getting sicker than he ever had in his life. Cilla was in shock; sweaty and pale, her eyes enormous and bottom lip quivering ever so slightly._

Reporting on the latest in celebrity gossip never prepared them for _this_.

When the police finally arrived, the floor was cordoned off and they were escorted out of the building, after giving a preliminary statement to the first respondents.

And then they were separated.

As if they were _suspects_.

Ryan agonized about the lost, scared look in Cilla's eyes as they met his, when the officer assisted her into the back of the police car, the cop's large hand on the top of her head. And suddenly _his_ head was being pushed down as a low rumble told him to get into the car, please.

_How did you know Mr. Trent?_

_Well, if you didn't know him, why were you there?_

_How did you get into the room?_

_Why do you think anyone would want to do _that _to him?_

_Where were you today?_

_Did you check in with the clerk downstairs?_

_Are you sure Ms. Cecere doesn't know Trent? Maybe was his lover?_

_Did you kill Paul Trent?_

_Did Ms. Cecere?_

_Do you know who would want to kill him?_

The same questions, over and over, sometimes phrased differently, but the meaning was the same. It kept on and on, until Ryan, exasperated, exhausted and hurting, asked if he needed to call an attorney.

_Then_ they backed off.

He met Cilla at the front desk, both of them white and shaking. A female detective, he couldn't remember her name if his life depended on it, directed a black & white to take them to their homes.

As they huddled in the back of the police vehicle, they each wondered if they'd ever be warm again.

The two detectives met in what passed as the kitchen/break room at the precinct after their interviews terminated. There was a pot of sludge brewing, as there always was; thick, dark caffeinated coffee, guaranteed to grow hair on your chest, even if you were the very female Lt. Stella Swanson.

Which is probably why there was that little box of herbal tea in one of the dented metal cabinets that never quite shut all the way.

Dhanraj Jayaram rubbed his hand across his eyes, took his chipped mug and chanced a cup anyway. He winced as he saw the deep color, and mentally prepared his stomach for the shock. As he set the cup down on the scratched table across from his partner, he felt his pocket for the tube of Tums he always carried with him. He had a feeling he was going to need them.

"So whaddya think, Dhannie?" Levi Halpern, his partner, asked in his nasal Brooklyn accent. They were an odd pair; the streetwise, sarcastic Jew and the Indian with the Extremely. Precise. Pronunciation.

But they worked, and worked well. In fact, they had the highest close record in their Precinct. The other detectives took to calling them the Dynamic Duo.

It was only partially envy.

Levi taught Dhanraj all about keeping kosher, Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. Dhannie taught Levi all about Diwali, Dussehra, and tandoori chicken.

Because, when it came down to it, New York City was just a giant mosaic of food.

"I don't like them for it, Lee. Too much blood there, and neither of them had any on them." He paused. "With the amount of spatter all over, they should be soaked in blood."

Levi took a large slug of hot coffee, (his in a go-cup because he could never be sure a mug would not be touching another plate or dish that touched meat) and his eyes began watering. "Coulda washed it off," he shrugged.

"I don't think so. She was wearing Prada for god's sake, and he had on Italian leather shoes that probably cost a month's salary."

Levi nodded. "I don't like 'em for it either. Still gotta check out their alibis, though. And then we'll do some diggin' into Paul Trent's background and see who disliked him enough to butcher him alive."

They both grew quiet. They had seen a lot in the City, but this was beyond brutality. And they both wondered what happened to the unfortunate vic's eyes.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

"She may _never_ remember, Inspector Loriot," the physician was quietly talking to the taciturn policeman outside of Livvy's room. Their tones were hushed, as befitting their location. "It might be a blessing for her if she didn't."

Loriot frowned. It was a double-edged sword. If she remembered, they may be able to use any information she could pass along to arrest the person or persons who did this to her. If she didn't, it would stymie the investigation, but be immeasurably better for her peace of mind.

"Is she still confused about her identity?" That was the most bizarre thing about this kidnapping case. She wasn't raped, wasn't beaten or tortured. Yes, her hair was shaved off and she was dressed in the most odd assortment of clothes. And drugged. Drugged and under some sort of mind control and there were restraint marks around one ankle.

Scopolamine mixed with GHB could do that to a person, in large doses. Amnesia, identity confusion. She was still insisting that her name was Becky and that she was disfigured in a fire, but it was going to be _all better now_.

"I think less so," the doctor responded. "As the drugs exit the system, our hope is that she will regain some, if not all, of her lost memory prior to the kidnapping. As I said, she may never remember anything about her kidnapping or the time in the basement."

As the doctor walked down the hall, Loriot peeked in at the woman, sleeping peacefully with her parents at her side. He flipped open his notebook to review the case. _It just did not make sense._

The mansion was owned by some large conglomerate in the United States. No-one was supposed to be staying there, at least as far as anyone in the company knew.

He'd have to be satisfied with that…for now.

And then there was the matter of the eleven dead women on the island. Five regular, everyday families shattered. Their daughters' dreams, their dreams, all abruptly halted. They wouldn't even have the closure of burying a _body._

The other six women, women reported by an aggrieved 'boyfriend' who was really a pimp, or a worried, sad-eyed parent, or not reported at all…prostitutes. Whoever the killer was, he got smarter. When the police released the information on the six missing women, he just switched over to women he believed no-one cared enough about to miss.

He _must_ have abducted Livvy, but didn't kill her. Why? The question haunted him. The dead women _haunted_ him, the bones and pieces of them they were able to recover from the killing ground. They were horrendously violated, tortured; flayed open while still alive.

As the M.E. worked methodically through the bodies and remnants at the city morgue, Loriot kept his vigil in the hospital, puzzling out the pieces of the mystery he _did_ have.

**The Manor House…**

Maddie was standing outside Matthew's office, listening to the angry sounds being spewed within. Oh, the doors and walls were thick enough so that she couldn't hear the words, but the raised voice and nasty, sarcastic tone were clear enough.

Matt Wheeler, ruthless businessman, was tearing the hide off of someone. It was a side of him she and the children rarely, if ever saw. To his family, he was the loving father and husband; funny and gentle.

On the few occasions his red-headed temper got the best of him, he did apologize, mostly ungraciously, she smiled to herself.

He _never_ apologized in business. _Ever_.

She knew what set him off. Helen Belden's call last night. Bad enough the kids were being lied about in that rag, and now they were plastered all over a nationally televised gossip show? She shuddered to think what their lives would be like if the paparazzi started to follow them everywhere.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door, only to see Matt stop his tirade, and watched as every single drop of color drained from his face. Alarmed, she rushed to his side – was he having a heart attack or stroke?

"When? Yesterday? No, the kids are at Misto Cay in the Caribbean, all of them. Uh-huh. All right. I expect you to keep them out of this." He slumped into a chair, his face gray, and he leaned his head against Maddie's abdomen.

"Matthew? Are you feeling all right? Do you want me to call Doctor Ferris?" Her slender hands were nervously plucking at his arms, his hair.

His voice was muffled against her. "I just got the word." He inhaled sharply, raising his green eyes to his wife's concerned topaz ones. "Paul Trent was murdered in his apartment sometime yesterday."

**Misto Cay, Caribbean…**

Aidan was the last one up the ramp to the jet, and he turned to look back at the island, as if to impress the colors, textures and flora forever in his mind. Not to mention the pretty little maid he had an adventure with…a bit of a balm to his ragged soul and a boost to his tattered self-esteem.

His sister examined his face as he sat down across from her and Dan, and liked what she saw there. A peaceful, rested look, instead of the pinched unhappiness of the past few months. There was a little bit of swagger to his step, and her lips curved up in a slight smile. _He must have gotten lucky._

Bob's voice came over the intercom, instructing his tired but happy passengers to buckle up for the flight ahead. There was no excited chatter; just the sound of sighs and the quick click of the belts being snapped.

The engines let out their loud whine, and the plane was aloft, nothing but blue sky above them and the turquoise of the Atlantic below. Trixie reached over and she put her slender, smaller hand in Jim's. His long fingers closed tightly around it, and both sighed.

"Déjà vu, Shamus." His lips curved, remembering that long-ago adventure in Happy Valley and his quest for a silver bracelet.

"Better than that, Jim." Her fingers traced the ring on his finger. "I have something _infinitely_ more wonderful than a bracelet," she whispered.

He raised her hand and brushed those magic lips across her knuckles. "Later," he whispered back, the green of his eyes darkening with want. "We have all the time in the world."

**BSU, FBI Quantico, VA…**

Karl King closed his eyes. Eleven women in Montréal.

Eleven.

The Dollmaker was responsible for this; of that, King was sure. The few autopsies from the medical examiner's office that were sent to the BSU contained the one signature the elusive serial killer could not deviate from.

All the eyes were missing.

Even on the women who barely had flesh left on their exposed, mutilated bodies; the ones who lay in pieces on that bucolic island; all the eyes had been surgically excised with great precision.

And strangely enough, the only woman who was dressed in the odd costume the Dollmaker preferred was the one _living_ witness. Livvy Dufresne, who continued to call herself Becky.

King sighed, rubbing his thumbs against his temples. Becky. There was a clue there, a rather large, giant clue that they just could not relate to anything else. The killer himself was a strange mixture of organized/disorganized.

_A singular entity._

Inspector Loriot was running into difficulty up there in Montréal. His superiors refused to believe the crimes were connected. The victim might never be able to relate any substantive information about the abduction.

Sighing again, he jabbed his finger on the intercom and directed his secretary to book him on a flight to Montréal, and to contact Loriot and give him the arrival time.

He flipped through his rolodex until he found the telephone number he thought he'd never use. For the first time, he dialed the digits that would connect him to the Locard Society and Dr. William Brietling. He needed to ask for help, and he needed the best.

**Nanci D'Rue's Apartment, NYC…**

"Coming! God! Give me a chance to open the door!" Someone was pounding on the door, the rhythmic thumping matching the hammering in her head. She pulled the thin robe around her and put one bloodshot eye up to the peephole.

"Yes?"

"Nanci D'Rue?" A badge flashed up at the peephole. "NYPD. We need to speak to you. Can you open the door?"

She ran a hand through her messy hair, tying a knot in the sash of her robe, and wondering what the hell the cops would want with her. Throwing open the myriad of locks, she flung open the door and growled at the two men standing there. "What do you need?" One bare foot was tapping impatiently.

"Ms. D'Rue, I'm Levi Halpern and this is my partner, Dhanraj Jayaram. I wonder if we could step inside for a minute. This uh, this isn't the kind of thing that should be discussed in a hallway."

"Oh yeah, sure, gentlemen," she snarked. Gesturing to her robe, she continued. "As you can see I'm dressed for visitors." She turned and walked into the apartment, and the two men exchanged a speaking glance.

Her hair was sticking up in the most odd places, her eyes bloodshot and rimmed in smeared black. Raccoon eyes. Her lipstick, what there was left of it, was smeared more across one cheek rather than gracing her lips. Spots of blusher stood out on her pasty complexion, much like a clown's exaggerated face makeup.

And she stunk to high heaven of hard liquor and stale cigarettes.

She bypassed the tiny living room and the coffee table littered with a few empty liquor bottles and some overflowing ashtrays, and sat them at the small dining room table. Patting her hair again, she asked in her hard voice, "Now why do I have two of New York's finest pounding at my door so early in the morning?" She crossed her arms over her rather pathetic chest and waited.

"How well do you know Paul Trent?" Dhannie asked, taking the lead.

"That scumbag? What the hell has he done now, besides costing me my career?"

"He was murdered sometime yesterday in his apartment," Levi supplied, watching her face carefully.

She took a shuddering breath. "Seriously?" A caricature of a smile crossed over her face. "Do you know who did it? I'd like to shake his hand."


	31. Tabloid Trix Chapter 30

Tabloid Trix Chapter 30

"I think we need to take a little excursion to Podunk, Westchester County," Levi Halpern snarked at his partner. "God, I hate the country." He shuffled some of the paperwork lying on his desk around. He'd get to it. _Someday._

"Do you want me to call the locals out there to set up a meeting?" His partner was typing something into the computer. He was _always_ all caught up on his paperwork, Levi thought sourly.

Reading his partner's mind, Dhannie smirked. "If you'd do it when you were supposed to, it wouldn't end up in impossibly high piles on your desk."

"Yeah yeah yeah." Levi muttered. "Nah, don't call 'em. Ya know how they get when us big-city boys get out in their jurisdictions. Let's not give 'em a chance to rally 'round the campfire."

Dhannie considered this, and had to agree. "You don't _seriously_ think the Wheelers or the Lynches had anything to do with Trent's murder, do you?" He perched on a corner of his partner's desk. "They're tremendously wealthy. Why would they dirty their hands like this?"

"Wealth ain't got nuthin' to do with it. I don't think they'd do the deed, but they sure have the dough to pay for a hit."

"Yes, but that's just it, Lee. We've worked a lot of murders and I've never seen anything like that one." He shuddered. "I hope I never do again. It just doesn't smell like a professional hit. There was rage there. It was something personal."

"And the upstaters have the motive. According to those people from the magazine that we interviewed yesterday, Paul Trent was not their favorite person. They were tyin' up the magazine in litigation."

Dhannie interrupted. "And that speaks to my point, Lee. That's what rich people do. They use lawyers like battering rams. We also need to speak with the elusive Hunter Lavigne. They all pointed out that Lavigne said he was going to contact Paul Trent personally. Lavigne's another one who is supposed to be richer than God."

"Yeah. And I can't believe a boy wonder," Levi pronounced it like 'wondah' and Dhannie winced, "Like Lavigne would close a successful magazine over a couple of lawsuits. This whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

Dhannie stood and stretched. "Let's get to the ME's office for the post. Maybe we'll get some answers there."

**Jim and Trixie's apartment…**

Hulk had to smile while he waited for Jim. It was obvious that the tall, husky redhead was simply wildly in love with his pretty, petite wife as she was with him. He walked over to the front window to do a crowd check. _Just a few stragglers again. They haven't heard the Bob-Whites are back in town._

He scrubbed at his face. They all came back yesterday, lightly tanned and happy. Just like college students and newlyweds should be. And he was going to have to bring them right down to earth again.

Sometimes his job _sucked_.

It was decided yesterday not to allow the news of Trent's murder to affect the young adults on their first night back. A conference call with the parents, the lawyers and the bodyguards' own boss decided that. It would be left up to Tiny, Big John and himself to impart the news. _Lovely_.

All he had to do was say the words to wipe those big grins right off their faces. "Uh, Jim?" Hulk caught Jim methodically checking the contents of his backpack. "Got a minute?"

"Yeah, sure, Hulk," Jim answered, a bit distracted. Where was that damn LSAT study guide?

At that moment, Trixie walked out of their office area with the guide. "Jim, why is it when _you _misplace something, it becomes _my _task to find it?" Her complaint echoed that of her mother's, and she almost clapped a hand to her mouth in shock.

"Guys, can you sit down a minute? I need to discuss something with the both of you." Hulk looked distinctly uncomfortable. Trixie and Jim exchanged a glance, but did as they were bid.

"What's up, Hulk?" Jim had a sneaking suspicion the big man was going to quit. After all, watching the tame Bob-Whites was not exactly on the road with Metallica.

Hulk clenched his hands into ham-sized fists as he watched the two pairs of eyes gazing at him with bright inquisitiveness and a certain amount of trust. Now all he had to do was take away their happy, holiday glow.

Yeah. It was just swell.

"Ummm." He took a deep, cleansing breath. "The publisher of _OMG!_ has ceased its publication, effective immediately." _Always lead off with the good news first_.

"Gleeps! That's wonderful!" Trixie leaned into Jim, a huge grin spreading across her animated face.

"There's more," Hulk said miserably. "_In the Know _has picked up where they left off. You were a weekend feature."

Jim was confused. "_In the Know_? Never heard of it. What is it, another rag?"

The happiness that had brightened Trixie's face dulled. "No. It's a gossip show. On television. National television, Jim."

Jim let loose with a string of profanity that would have done Ozzy Osbourne proud. "Great. Just great."

Hulk closed his eyes and rubbed his eyebrows. "Paul Trent was murdered in his apartment a couple of days ago," he blurted out.

"Trent was _murdered_? By _who_?" Trixie figured it was either an angry spouse, given the absolutely disgusting morals of the man, or maybe one of those crazed Albanian albino dwarves.

"The cops haven't released any information. All that was reported was that he was found by the _In the Know _crew, who were going over there to consult with him. You can guess what they were going to 'consult' about," Hulk relayed dryly. "Your parents and the lawyers have been informed."

Jim was quiet, but the tic in his jaw was working overtime. "I guess it's good we were out of the country. At least we won't be suspects."

Trixie's eyes widened. "You're right Jim. I'm sure Trent made plenty of enemies, but naturally we would be considered persons of interest. After all, we do have motive."

"Listen guys, even if you were out of the country, the cops will still want to interview you. You have motive, you have means…you coulda hired a hit guy."

Trixie snorted. "Oh yeah. We are all BFFs with the criminal underbelly in the City. Or maybe they think we put an ad in the _New York Times._ 'Civic-minded group seeks to hire hit man. Must have references.' Yeah, I could see that."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Jim and Hulk could not refrain from the helpless laughter Trixie's sarcastic words evoked.

"Anyway," Hulk continued, still trying to maintain a straight face, "The Sunday edition of the show was replaced by reruns. I suspect the so-called fans think you all are still out of the country." Taking a peek outside, he noted there were still only those few hard-core nutjobs. "Let's get going before the crowd gets bigger."

The three of them left the apartment, only to be met in the hall by a disturbed-looking Honey and Big John. "Got the news, huh?" Trixie hissed at her.

"I didn't like him, but I wouldn't wish anyone _dead_," Honey whispered back. "I wonder what happened?"

Outside, Jim paused to give his wife a thorough kiss before he and Hulk headed off. "Be careful, Trix," he warned. "Take care of my special girl."

"I've got her, Jim," Big John replied. "At least for a while."

Across the street, the tall, kind of manly-looking girl watching the interaction tightened her fists. Another day or two, and the plan would be complete. For now, he just wanted to get home and get out of the makeup and damn itchy wig.

He watched his prey until she disappeared down the street, knowing he'd have to wait there to be contacted by the NYPD, possibly even interviewed about that reporter. What was his name again?

Oh yeah. Paul Trent.

He had nice eyes.

**Montréal, Quebec, Canada…**

The conference room was like any other police conference room in a large city. Nondescript green; mismatched chairs and a table left over from some other government office that obviously rated a new one.

The only thing that was different was the murder board, set up with painstaking precision by Jean-Paul Loriot. Usually there was one, maybe two vics .

They had to tape the pictures to the wall. Eleven spots. Some with just a report that some poor, unidentified woman was a victim. The rest with photos of smiling faces, young and carefree.

And now dead.

The twelfth spot was reserved for the woman Loriot believed was the only living witness, yet everything was locked inside that shorn head, might never be set free.

Karl King and William Brietling were hunched over the gruesome crime scene photos and the autopsy reports. Disturbing, indeed. If this was the Dollmaker, and King fervently believed it was, the violence in him was escalating.

As ever, Will Brietling maintained an impassive face. He couldn't give purchase to the sympathy and horror that wanted to well within him. All he could do was bend his powerful mind to read the clues that the perp had unwittingly left. Maybe not DNA, but the psychological manifestations he could not control.

After a time, he finally spoke. "This is definitely the work of one person. You are correct, Inspector Loriot, as are you, Karl. The Dollmaker has paid a visit to your beautiful city and," he added, "He has already left."

"How can you be sure, Dr. Brietling?" Loriot demanded. The political pressure was immense to solve these homicides. If what Brietling was saying was true, they already lost their chance to apprehend the perp.

"You have a _living_ victim. That tells me he had to leave, and leave abruptly." He stroked his mustache. "He wasn't able to complete his ritual, or…" his voice got slower, thoughtful. "Something of paramount importance to his psychopathy occurred. Yes, that's it. Something so overwhelming, he didn't take his usual precautions."

"Will, we might never get answers from Ms. Dufresne," Karl interrupted. "That avenue may be useless to us."

Will steepled his fingers. "Oh, Ms. Dufresne already provided much valuable information. We never knew why the Dollmaker dressed his vics; why he shaved their heads and put on those cheap wigs. We now know somebody that he – I can't say loved, because I don't believe he has the capacity to love – somebody that enables and feeds his psychopathy was badly burned in a fire. Her name was or is Becky. He keeps trying to recreate Becky, but none of the vics pans out. So he continues to try."

"What's most troubling is his escalation of the violence. His pattern in the past has been to abduct a vic, shave her head, dress her up. Then when she doesn't become Becky, he suffocates her via carbon monoxide poisoning. The last vic in the States had incisions all over her body, done while she was still alive." Karl rubbed his eyes.

"Why do you think he left Montréal, Dr. Brietling?" Loriot needed to know. He needed to know that Livvy Dufresne was safe for now.

"Quite simple, really. He had a successful operation here. He was abducting women, disposing of their remains and _not getting caught_. There wasn't even a whisper of suspicion about the disposal site, this house, just public information that police were baffled about the disappearance of six women. They weren't even aware of the prostitute abductions, or they were written off. He could have gone on here for an indefinite amount of time, or at least until Ms. Dufresne didn't pan out as a substitute Becky. But he left, left in such a hurry that he failed to insure she was in fact, dead."

Will rubbed his tired eyes, took a sip of bottled water. "He is…or was…a very organized killer. His escalation to cutting the victims and abducting prostitutes proves that a) he is devolving due to some stressor, and b) he was able to adapt to the changing circumstances when the police announced the disappearances. The cutting portion is almost becoming more paramount than finding Becky. And I find it most interesting that five of the women had doll's eyes and the others, I am assuming they are all the prostitutes, did not. He couldn't stop himself from enucleating their eyes, but didn't leave his signature replacement."

The migraine was looming over Karl. "I am terribly afraid that someone caught his attention. A girl or woman that may be a close match to this Becky, maybe closer than any of the others. Whoever she is, she's in terrible danger." He sighed heavily. "The Becky victims are all wearing a sort of modified milkmaid costume. We should concentrate on the Midwest, say the Minneapolis area where there is a high concentration of people of Northern European descent."

For the moment, Will kept his opinion to himself. There were several other factors he needed to investigate. He'd set Trixie to it right away. She could certainly investigate house fires where a Becky was burned, disfigured or died. It would definitely predate the first known Dollmaker murder.

But for some reason, he had a deep-seated feeling they all were just a tiny bit off.

**Police Headquarters, Sleepyside NY…**

Chief Wendell Molinson really wanted to laugh right in the face of the two investigators from the City. They swaggered into his office, big city hot-shots against the small town cop. _They should only have had Trixie Belden Frayne around. _

"Chief, you are aware that Paul Trent was murdered," the one with the unpronounceable name was explaining.

With a dry note in his rough voice, Molinson raised a bushy eyebrow. "We _do_ have television and radio out here in the sticks, gentlemen. So yes, I am aware of his demise." He didn't offer anything else, no expression of sympathy or horror. He just waited for Dhannie to continue.

"We are aware that Trent was fired from his last job at the local paper, and has had a hard time finding work after that. It, ah, appears he was now making his living reporting about, ah, a group of kids you are probably very familiar with." His voice petered out as a thundercloud crossed the face of the man before him.

"Yes," Molinson ground out. "Kids I am _extremely_ familiar with. In case you're thinking that the Bob-Whites are anything at all like the lies Trent wrote in that rag, well, gentlemen, you haven't done much investigating now, have you? Those kids and their parents have done more for this town than you can ever know. And by the way, one of them, Trixie Frayne? Curly-haired blonde? Well, she was just inducted into the Locard Society." Molison smirked as the two men exchanged a glance. _No, they weren't aware of that._

Levi Halpern finally spoke up. "We aren't accusing them of anything, Chief. We're just on a fact-finding mission, you know, beatin' down all the doors. We'd like to talk to the parents."

_I just bet you would._ "I'll give a call up to the Manor House and get back to you in a few minutes. I'm not sure if Matt Wheeler and Ed Lynch are available." With that, he turned on his heel and walked back into his office, shutting the door with a decided click.

"_The Locard Society?_ We must have something wrong here, Dhannie. The info we have is that the girl is 18 years old." Lee wiped a hand down his thigh.

Dhannie looked up from his smartphone. "No, exactly right, Lee." He shoved the phone in Lee's face. "Look here. The Locard website. She is a fully-fledged member of Locard."

Yup. This investigation suddenly got a lot more complicated.


	32. Tabloid Trix Chapter 31

Tabloid Trix Chapter 31

Lissa Ann Thorne turned on the news and yawned. It was quite a culture shock, returning to the United States, to a city she never lived in. She might have even enjoyed the adventure, the romance and thrill of being in the city its residents thought of as the be-all and end-all of the world. Maybe even the universe.

Except, of course, she thought with a sarcastic curl to her lips, not everyone had a psychopathic serial killer for a brother. That _kind_ of put a damper on things.

One thing she really missed was the coffee. Years of living in France made her much more appreciative of the deep, dark roasts they had over there. She couldn't find anything like it here yet, even if she home brewed. She held the hot cup in her cold hands and turned her attention to the quite yummy-looking anchor.

"_Police in the city of Montréal in the Quebec province of Canada are being very tight lipped about the discovery of the bodies of eleven women in a remote section of St. Helene's Island. Sources close to the investigation say that a group of college students discovered the grisly remains while on an environmental clean-up detail. The same sources relate some of the women were dressed very oddly, while others were just dumped and possibly dismembered. There is speculation that the murders may be related to the Dollmaker, a serial killer who has eluded the international police force for a number of years. The police, however, have issued a brief statement saying the investigation is ongoing and the person responsible for these terrible crimes has already vacated their city."_

"_It's just horrible, Tony. Sources also state that Dr. William Brietling of the Locard Society was seen disembarking at the airport. Any truth to that rumor?"_

"_We don't know, Cassie. He may just be in the city for a lecture. Locard will not discuss any case where their expertise is sought. However, it is terribly coincidental."_

"_Right, Tony. Now here's Jeff with the weather."_

She shut the weather off with nary a second thought about cutting off the jocular Jeff, and put down her cup, stomach tied in knots. Grabbing her laptop, she logged onto Interpol and pulled up the information on the crime.

Five women, dressed like Becky, and with those freaking blue doll eyes. Six others, sliced open while still alive. And the possibility of a living victim.

_He was decompensating._

She pulled on a light jacket, needing to walk while she was processing the few morsels of information the newscaster spelled out, and matching it with the Interpol insider evidence. Stuffing some money into the front pocket of her jeans, she decided to pick up a couple of newspapers.

One of the best things about living in a cosmopolitan city was that there was practically a newsstand on every other corner. And they all had such a selection! Almost everything under the sun, and then more.

She picked up the _New York Times _and _Lé Journal de Montréal_. Her eyes flittered over the magazines, not really seeing them.

And then, she stopped breathing.

The picture on the front of the magazine stunned her. A gorgeous blonde woman, with lightly flushed cheeks, the bluest eyes and full pink lips. Her curls were tousled with delightful abandon. With a shaking hand, Lissa pulled the magazine from the rack.

Now she knew why her brother made a swift exit from the fair city of Montréal. All these years he was trying to recreate Becky, and never succeeding.

He didn't have any reason to remain there. Not when the living and breathing replica stared out at him from every newsstand. All he had to do now was scoop her up.

**The Manor House…**

Chief Molinson had one of the black and whites drive the two New York City detectives up to the imposing mansion on the hill. He just hoped that Matt Wheeler and Regan would be able to hold onto their rather volatile tempers.

He wasn't feeling all that charitable himself regarding the late Paul Trent. The town had seen an influx of looky-loos, just like that security guy said. The Manor House, Crabapple Farm and the Lynch place were forced to put up signs that warned about trespassing. When Helen Belden opened her back door to hang out laundry and was surprised by two giggling girls, the whole of Glen Road was designated as a no parking zone. And his officers were handing out tickets galore.

If he were an optimistic person, he could secretly enjoy the fact the town coffers were about to be enriched. But the whole mess was just another bothersome chore with endless paperwork.

He exited his own vehicle and met the two at the steps of the large porch that graced Manor House, Although trying not to look impressed, the two men were rather wide-eyed at the understated wealth. Rolling landscaped lawns, a historical old manse with lots and lots of trees.

And they couldn't even see the stables or the pool from their vantage point.

The front door opened before the Chief even raised a hand. "Hey, Chief," said the pretty little thing who answered.

"Celia. How's the baby?"

"Good, he's good." She gave a hard look at the two strangers. "Everyone is in the formal dining room. You know the way." She held the door open and all but slammed it shut after the trio started down the hall.

Halpern and Jayaram exchanged a glance. This was _real_ wealth. _Old_ money. Not a gilt-edged cupid or excess of red and gold flocked wallpaper anywhere. Their footsteps echoed on the polished hardwood floors in the long hallway to the gathering awaiting them.

A perfunctory knock on the polished mahogany door, and they were being escorted into a large room with seven pairs of eyes riveted to them. Molinson stood next to the detectives, gave a large sigh, and began the introductions.

Each of the detectives was busy cataloging their first impressions. Matthew and Madeleine Wheeler exuded power. Edward Lynch was dialed down a bit, but still cut from the same cloth. His wife, Sharon, was more motherly looking than the reserved and elegant Madeleine. The other red-haired man in the room, William Regan, was balanced on the balls of his feet; a real Irish tough from the Lower East Side.

The couple most interesting to Dhanraj Jayaram were Peter and Helen Belden. They were not even close on the scale of wealth and privilege that were enjoyed by the other two couples. Yet one son was studying to be a physician; another was gifted as a journalist; and they raised a daughter who broke all the hard and fast rules of the revered Locard Society.

They would have liked to break up the group, have them in separate rooms to see if their stories matched, find little inconsistencies. But they realized even getting in the door without being met by a phalanx of lawyers was a big win.

"Um, you all know that Paul Trent was murdered this weekend," Levi Halpern began. "We are the lead detectives assigned to investigate his demise."

Regan's red-headed temper was boiling over. "Let's cut to the chase. You think we put out a hit on the guy." He snorted loudly. "As much as we would have loved to do just that, Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Lynch were going after him. _Legally_."

Matt stepped in. "Regan is correct. You can check it out with the attorney we have, Philip Ramsay. He's an expert in cases where privacy and slander laws have been breached by vermin like Trent." Matt sighed. "He had enough to serve a warrant to have that…that magazine Trent wrote for to suspend publication of any more lies about our children. And a warrant to have Trent himself shut down. So why would we even try to kill him?" Matt spread his arms out, hands up.

"Death is a much more permanent solution to your problem," Dhannie said dryly.

The pretty blonde Helen Belden spoke up. "Just when did Mr. Trent get shot?"

The two detectives again exchanged a glance. "What makes you think Paul Trent got shot?" Levi asked in a queer sort of voice.

"Well, obviously he must have been shot if you suspect we hired a hit man." She blushed. "On television they always hire some disgruntled ex-special ops person."

"Mrs. Belden, Paul Trent was not shot," Dhannie explained, a gentle note in his voice. He knew he had to get their alibis, but he would bet his life that none of the people in the room had anything to do with the messy demise of the decedent. "He was butchered alive."

**Back in NYC…**

From his vantage point a half-block down, the motorcyclist watched as the colorful taxi pulled up in front of the apartment building. Dressed in black leather and riding a powerful hog, his face was hidden by the full helmet and face shield he wore.

The whole rest of the world seemed to dim out when the doorman opened the entranceway and she bounced out, her golden curls beckoning him. All he could see was her, smiling up and saying something; first to the doorman and then to the taxi driver as she clambered into the vehicle.

As the taxi pulled out into traffic, he followed at a discreet distance, the distinctive roar of the Harley swallowed up by the noise that was New York City. The distance the taxi rode was not great; a few miles at best, through the clogging traffic of the City. She waited for the driver to open her door and gave him a magnificent almost-Becky smile. The driver waited for her to get inside and close the door, and then took off to his next fare.

The brass plaque said The Locard Society. He knew she interned there, just as he knew everything about her it was possible to know. _Now that would be a coup, taking her from right under their lofty noses._

He swung his leg over the bike and walked past the brownstone. A state-of-the-art security system, that's for sure. A couple of discreet surveillance cameras – they could be fake, but somehow he doubted it.

He knew she'd be a couple of hours, if not more. Not wanting to call undue attention to himself, he remounted the bike and took off. He'd check back in periodically. A few blocks later, he parked the bike, pulled off the helmet and took a seat at the outdoor table of the small, funky café.

Might as well eat while he plotted out how to awaken almost-Becky from her long slumber. Just like Sleeping Beauty, she was only awaiting the touch of the Prince.

And he was the Prince.

At Paul Trent's apartment…

Levi and Dhannie unsealed the door, listening to the squawk of the manager. He was certainly more in evidence now that a grisly murder had taken place under his watch. Business had been off since the news broke, and he was sweating his job.

He badgered them all the way upstairs about releasing the room. He was losing money. Guests or potential renters did not want to stay in a place that had a yellow crime scene tape stretched across a doorframe. He kept on and on until Dhannie threatened to have the vice cops pay a little visit, maybe stake out the lobby. Muttering something under his breath that was anatomically impossible, he opened the door to the room and turned away, trundling downstairs like the roaches inhabiting the decrepit building.

The peculiar odor of large quantities of dried blood assaulted them as soon as the door swung open. "He let the perp in," Levi said. No sign of damage on the doorframe.

"He either let the perp in, or the perp was already here, waiting for him," Dhannie replied. "These locks are flimsy. I bet my 5 year old could pick this lock with her Dora the Explorer barrette."

"Maybe." Something about the whole scene was bothering Levi. There was just something off and he couldn't put his finger on it.

"I don't see the upstaters as having anything at all to do with this. They were all pretty shocked at the way Trent was murdered." Dhannie paused. "I don't really see the kids as having anything to do with this either. This was not a hit. I think we should talk to 'em, talk to Lavigne, but this smacks of something personal. Real personal. A pro would just take the shot and go."

Levi scrubbed his face. "Yeah." He walked over to the dirty window, stared down at the alley below while the stuttering red neon sign blinked out its broken message. "Nice view." He turned back into the room and it hit him.

There was a void on the wall.

**Lissa Thorne's apartment…**

She'd been pacing all day, her mind whirling. She knew, just knew, that Trixie Belden Frayne was in mortal danger, just like she and her father knew what a monster Hunter was so many years ago.

She hadn't done anything then, hadn't done anything during all the years hiding from him. But what could she do? She would have been laughed out of Interpol if she even suggested the eccentric genius billionaire Hunter Lavigne was the Dollmaker.

There was no evidence connecting him to any of the crimes. Just the anecdotal tale of a twisted little boy and an American Beauty doll from long ago. Something a disgruntled, jealous sister might make up.

Even now, she hesitated. What could she do? Walk up to the woman and say, "Hi my name is Lissa Thorne, but I'm really the dead sister of Hunter Lavigne. He's a serial killer and you're next on the list because you look like a doll he likes to have sex with?"

She'd probably end up in Bellevue under observation. And shortly after being released, she'd suffer a fatal accident.

She buried her face in her hands, almost paralyzed by the choices she had in front of her, until her stomach gave a lurch and she found herself in the bathroom, heaving out its meager contents.

She sat there weakly, on the cold tile floor, embracing the porcelain god to whom she knelt many, many times before. And made the decision she wasn't going to genuflect anymore. She was going to warn Trixie Frayne.

And she was going to become the hunter.

**Outside of the Locard Society…**

He watched almost-Becky climb into the taxi. He didn't bother to follow it; he knew exactly where she was going.

_And the plan clicked into place._


	33. Tabloid Trix Chapter 32

Tabloid Trix Chapter 32

As the door clicked behind her and she plugged in the security code, Trixie felt a little overwhelmed. After all, Will was consulting up in Montréal, Stephen was still in Boston, and Anna said she was going to take a couple days off and relax in Cape Cod.

Which meant she was alone in the big brownstone. It was kind of…unsettling.

Her cell let out a musical chirp; incoming message from Will. She hurried down the hall to her office and pulled out her phone, reading Will's explicit instructions. _Stop everything. Search the net for any fires within the last 20 years where a female was either disfigured or died. Limit the search to Midwest, Upper West Coast. We only have a first name, Becky or Rebecca. Keywords: milkmaid, blonde, petite. Let me know what you find. Skim the folder Dollmaker. Graphic crime scene photo warning!_

She placed her laptop in the docking station and booted it up, and began to delve deep into the mind of the UNSUB popularly known as the Dollmaker.

It was not easy reading.

**Hunter Lavigne's Apartment in Trump World Tower…**

The two tough New York detectives sighed as they once again, entered the domain of the _really-haves_. First it was a quiet, elegant mansion upstate, and now it was the ginormous apartment on the 44th floor of the Trump World Tower.

Just one of the many homes the elusive Hunter Lavigne owned. Dhannie would have bet his paycheck that it would be days, maybe even weeks before they actually got to meet the man. He was astonished when Lavigne's P.A. called him back and made the appointment. Hell, he couldn't even get in to see his Captain that easily.

"So, whaddya think an apartment goes for in a place like this?" Lee asked as the elevator whisked them upstairs. They had run the gauntlet from a supercilious doorman sniffing at their beat-up old police-issue that they parked right out front, to a concierge who just about tripped over herself being helpful.

"I looked it up," Dhannie replied, and Lee just had to roll his eyes. Trust his partner to dig down deep into the fine details. "Almost 9 mill."

"Crap. Better not break any Ming vases." They stepped out of the elevator, to be met by Timothy Nunan, who introduced himself as Mr, Lavigne's counsel. The two detectives exchanged a glance, and followed the man into the apartment.

It was a huge open floor plan, the floor to ceiling windows with a spectacular view of the East River and the United Nations Building. "Mr. Lavigne is waiting in the dining room," the lawyer intoned, in that sort-of grave voice that reminded Levi of an undertaker and led the way.

It was not at all like the elegant but homey Manor House, Dhannie thought. The Wheelers might have Picassos and Rembrandts on the walls, but the house had a joyful, lived in feeling. This, this was all modern angles and corners; bright white and with no soul at all.

The thought briefly crossed his mind it may reflect the single soul who dwelled within.

White leather-clad double doors led into the dining room, where a stark black table and uncomfortable-looking chairs rested on a black and white geometric patterned rug. A low flower arrangement of white roses interrupted the flow of the black table. Lavigne sat at the far end, his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he was wearing shaded glasses.

He did not rise.

"Mr. Lavigne, these gentlemen are here to ask you some questions about…about Paul Trent. Am I correct?" Nunan knew he was, but played dumb anyway.

"Yes, you are," Dhannie inserted smoothly. "I am Detective Jayaram and this is my partner, Detective Halpern." Both men had their IDs at the ready, which were minutely inspected by Nunan.

Lavigne waved a hand. "Please be seated, gentlemen. I hope you don't mind that Mr. Nunan here is going to join us. I often find it necessary to have legal counsel at the ready." As the two men took their places on either side of the table, Nunan sat right next to Lavigne.

_Sitting next to the throne gets you an awful lot of power, _Lee sarcastically thought.

"How can I help you?" Lavigne's cool voice started the ball rolling.

"Ah, by now I'm sure you heard the news report about your employee, Paul Trent, being murdered," Dhannie began.

"Yes, so sad. It's a terrible shame. I take it you two are investigating the crime?"

"Yeah. We gotta couplea questions for you, Mr. Lavigne," Lee broke in. "Seeing as how you were probably the last person to see him."

Lavigne's eyebrows rose. "How on earth do you figure that?"

"We interviewed the staff of _OMG!_. According to what they said, you made the decision to cease publication of the magazine, and gave them all a quite nice package," Dhannie kicked Lee under the table. "However, Mr. Trent was not present and you remarked that you would be talking to him separately."

Hunter glanced at Nunan. "Yes, I did state I would see Mr. Trent separately. We also had a package prepared for him. However, I never got a chance to meet with him. Despite repeated phone calls from my P.A., Trent never returned the calls. Now I know why."

"Why would a man with your wealth and authority meet with rather low-level staff?" Lee asked, rather reasonably, in Dhannie's opinion.

Timothy Nunan jumped in. "The magazine was appealing to the lowest common denominator, as well as exposing Mr. Lavigne and World Vista Entertainment to lawsuits. The staff was found to be manipulating facts and photographs regarding some private citizens."

Lavigne stood. "I wanted to make it crystal clear to the staff that that sort of irresponsible behavior would not be tolerated by me, or by any of my companies. I could have sent just Mr. Nunan here, but I find I can…ah…use my notoriety to my advantage at times. That includes extorting agreements from those involved not to sell the articles elsewhere."

"Why would you care what they did?"

The tall man in the black suit put his palms flat against the table and leaned forward. "You forget, gentlemen, that I am a privileged member of the class they were skewering. I've felt the lash of the press much too often to allow one of my own to do the same, and to allow the lies to be perpetrated in another venue. Besides," he tossed off, "They were my intellectual property anyway."

"So, you never met Mr. Trent as planned," Dhannie repeated, just to be clear.

"Surely Mr. Lavigne is not a suspect," Nunan interjected, a look of horror on his face.

"Can you tell us your whereabouts on Saturday?" Lee did not like either of the men. The lawyer was, well, a lawyer, and Lavigne seemed like devoid of any human emotion.

"I was here, in my office, all day," Lavigne said smoothly. "Various conference calls and taking care of my business. I also am writing a book, and I was working on that most of the night. Feel free to review the security tapes of the building. And now, gentlemen, I need to tend to my affairs." Lavigne walked over to the windows, stood with his back to them as the other three exited.

The U.N. building gleamed in the sunlight and the East River sparkled, but he never noticed. All he could see was the living and breathing Becky, and all he could feel was a strange sort of exhilaration and apprehension.

For the first time, he wondered if having Becky in the flesh would be _enough_.

**In front of the BWG apartment building…**

The tall woman with a cap of black hair stood patiently with the small group of fans. She listened to their inane chatter about which male Bob-White had the hottest body, and really, how could they still be interested in the girls from upstate?

A ripple of excitement went through the crowd, and she peered across the street to determine what had the caused the barely-banked fervor.

A tall redhead and a giant of a man were standing in front of the building, obviously waiting for something…or someone. Lissa decided to tune in on the screeches that passed for conversation among the female fans.

"It's Jim!" _Jim Frayne, husband to Trixie Frayne._ Lissa stared at the man who, up 'til now, she had only seen in bad photographs in a defunct magazine. _The big guy next to him must be his bodyguard._

She noted the fans were keeping their distance. _Probably had a run in with the behemoth over there. _The silly little girls – and some not so little – were yelling across traffic, trying to catch the redhead's attention.

And it was driving them crazy that he just continued whatever conversation he was having with the bodyguard and the doorman, as if the pandemonium across the street didn't even exist. She had to give him credit for that.

The big man said something to Jim, and he snapped his head back, the most magnificent smile gracing his face. A taxi was slowing approaching the front of the building, and by the look on Jim Frayne's face, it must be his wife.

_Trixie._

Lissa broke off from the group, started a dance across the street, dodging cars, her eyes intent on the blonde exiting the colorful taxi. "Trixie!" she yelled over the cacophony of the traffic, the fans screaming and the sirens and background noise that was Manhattan. "Trixie! I need to talk to you."

The petite blonde stared over at her, opened her mouth to say something, when her husband pulled her away, giving Lissa a hard look. He and man-mountain hustled her inside the building. She stopped in front of the doorman, barring the way inside. "I need to speak to Mrs. Frayne," she said, breathless from her sprint thorough traffic.

"Yeah, that's what they all say." Mel stationed himself in front of the glass entryway. "Sorry, ma'am."

"You don't understand. It's a matter of life and death."

"Listen lady, I've heard every excuse under the sun. Even if I did let you inside, there's no way you could get to her. They are in lockdown. So go back over there," he pointed to the crowd. "You're lucky you got this close."

"Look, sir, if I could only speak with her…"

"Ain't happenin'. Now either move along or I'll call the cops." Mel dug in. He was pretty damn tired of playing first line to the crazies. They didn't pay him enough for this!

Lissa saw the obstinate line to his jaw and the unsmiling eyes. "Okay. All right." She pulled a piece of paper from her handbag, and a pen. "This is my name and telephone number. If you would pass it along to Mrs. Frayne, she can decide if she wants to speak to me." She proffered the slip to the doorman, who reluctantly closed his fingers around it.

"Thanks. I mean it. Thanks." Lissa turned and strode away. She had grave doubts that Trixie Frayne would ever see that paper, but she had to try. _Had_ to.

Mel watched the woman walk away, and shook his head. He looked at the slip of paper in his hands, with the neat writing and sighed. He crumpled it up and chucked it in the small waste receptacle in the corner of the building; a receptacle full of small slips of paper with desperate messages for the various inhabitants of the 14th floor.

_Everybody had an angle. Even pretty women with a decided French accent. _

**Later that evening, at Trump World Tower…**

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if doing so would jar the headache there and send it back to the lurking depths in his head.

Becky was in one of _those _moods today. She was too hot; she was too cold. She hated her room here. What was taking him so long to get at almost-Becky? Was he losing his touch? Why was he so edgy? Why hadn't he made love to her since…well since forever? Didn't he promise to love her no matter what?

He snapped at her. He actually _snapped_ at her. She retreated into an icy silence since then, supposing he would tire of the quiet and apologize. Well, she was in for a surprise, because quiet was just what he needed. More than needed, _required_.

He perfected his plan to obtain possession of almost-Becky. He couldn't wait for his scarred and disfigured obsession to be restored in a warm, living body.

It would work this time. It would. He stared out the window, out at the lights beginning to twinkle on in the City. He missed his island in Canada, missed the release he felt there. So sweet, so much better than just sex. He knew he was cheating on Becky; there would be hell to pay if she found out. But the blood was calling, even more so than his obsession with her.

He wondered about it, just the tiniest bit. The things on the island he played with, well, the release he felt there was not with a living body. Hell, most of them were not even warm. As he stared out at the U.N. building, he shrugged his shoulders again, much as he had done with the detectives earlier that day.

The dark thought rose unbidden.

If he had to, if it was necessary, he could meld the ascension of almost-Becky to Becky, and get rid of them both; and still have all that lovely red stuff to play in.

As if in complete agreement, the last rays of the sun turned the U.N. scarlet.

**Back at Trixie and Jim's…**

Jim was seriously pissed. He had been, ever since that Crazy Woman ran across the street yelling his wife's name.

So the stupid magazine ceased publication. So Trent was dead. _BFD._ The gossip show just took up the reins where _OMG!_ dropped them. He almost felt like he was back with Jonesy, waiting for the next blow, never knowing when it was coming.

And he did not like that feeling.

His dad and Phil Ramsay assured him the television station had been sent a cease and desist letter, but fat lot of good the last one had accomplished. Jim didn't think the last day or so, where Cilla Cecere had not appeared on air with her sly innuendos about the BWGs, would last. After all, the station promised a series, and she was out sick.

All this stress was definitely not conducive to studying for the LSATs.

He and Trixie opted for some pizza from Luca's and some heavy-duty studying/work in their home office. He was so very proud of her. She was acing her courses in college; the trust and work at Locard was helping her confidence and laying a great foundation for the agency she and Honey hoped to open in the future.

He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, and peered over at Trixie through narrowed green eyes.

Those sapphire eyes of hers, the ones that snapped with temper at him so long ago; that gazed at him over the years in frustration, anger, fright and now looked at him with a spark that set him on fire, were fixated on her work computer. Every so often she would mutter something unintelligible, and send a quick message to Dr. Brietling, which was almost always returned promptly.

It was relentless, this ache for her. He thought it might be assuaged by their marriage; by being able to wake up to her every morning and reach out for her every night. Instead, it intensified.

It wasn't just the mind-blowing, delirious sex. It was just her. _Finally._ Together, with no boundaries; without having to mask his gaze or sublimate his desire; without having to forcibly prevent his finger from running through those thick blonde curls, from touching her.

_Everywhere._

The glint of her rings as she typed caught his attention, made him glance down at his matching one. Her fingers trembled a bit as she slid it on his finger, up at Ten Acres, and promised him everything. He touched the ring reverently, a tangible reflection of the vow they made to each other on that fantastic, warm summer day,

A thousand images, a mind-collage, fluttered by as he watched her.

_Helping her feed the chickens, waiting for Honey and a sparkling diamond._

_Feeling the sting of angry blue eyes snap at him when he lectured her about math at Uncle Monty's ranch, and then being jealous of the urban cowboy who helped her more than _he_ did._

_The rage and helpless feeling as his girl mooned over another, parading around in the diamond _he_ gave her._

_Snow, glittering in her eyelashes, making his mouth go dry and a very adult desire manifest itself._

_Pulling her out of a sinkhole, half-drowned, his heart racing in fear._

_Fastening a silver bracelet around her wrist in an airplane, and beating himself up afterwards for not kissing her._

_In a dark, cramped tunnel, their bodies brushing against each other, hoping she wouldn't notice how aroused he was. Hoping she _would_ notice how aroused he was._

_Blue eyes filled with tears she was determined not to shed when he and Brian left for college._

_That email of her in a bikini, mistakenly sent but one of the catalysts he needed to claim his girl._

_Aidan._

_His special girl, on the eve of their engagement, seducing him with those big, innocent blue eyes and some _very _sexy underwear. _

She felt his eyes on her, intense, burning, and looked across at him. Trixie knew that look, felt the tingle right down to the tips of her toes. With great care, she logged off and said, "Finished studying, Studly?"

His mouth was dry, his voice thick with need. "I just want you so badly I'm crazy with it." As he spoke, he pushed back from the chair, spinning it back and crashing it against the wall. He reached her in two large strides, pulling her up out of the chair and fusing his mouth to hers. "Want… you… so… bad," he muttered, raining kisses down her neck, his hands splayed across the round globes of her bottom.

She rubbed herself against him, the sensitized tips of her breasts creating the most amazing tension deep in her core. He stumbled with her to their bed, crashing into furniture along the way, his mouth unable to stop kissing her overheated skin.

"So freaking in love with you." His hands were everywhere, touching her, his green eyes dark with the delirium that took over whenever he made love with her. The fabric of her thin tank top bunched in his hand as he ripped it open, exposing her heavy breasts to his magic hands and questing mouth. She pulled off his shirt, unbearably aroused and pulled him to her, his bare skin finally against hers.

"_Jim_." Just one little word. She couldn't say more, not while he was pulling off her flannel pants, shucking his own. His eyes were glazed over, dazed and he was hard, so hard he thought he might die of it. He was almost imploding from the force of the desire shimmering, almost with a life of its own, between them.

Every single nerve ending in her body was aflame. Every single time they made love he made her body and brain surrender to his. _Every single time._

Her soft hands began to stroke him, making his pulse leap and his heart hammer against his ribcage. His mouth traveled down her flat stomach, while his hands did the most astonishing things to her, things that clouded her mind and made the blood in her body into a molten stream of lava, burning away her inhibitions, her thoughts and making her savage with need.

He slid into her, filling her, catching the sob that tore from her throat with his mouth. _So hot_. So tight and wet. So _his_.

His thrusts were long and slow, taking her higher and higher as she gripped his hips, heat pumping off of her; pouring out from him like a furnace.

And when they shattered, when their eyes went blind and their souls flew out of their bodies and joined, they were completely and totally together.


	34. Tabloid Trix Chapter 33

Tabloid Trix Chapter 33

Bastian deposited that pretty little blonde at Locard headquarters, watching carefully to ensure she made it inside. Dr. Brietling and Will had threatened him with bodily harm if he did not do so. And since this gig paid very, very well, he did _exactly_ as they wanted.

Just before he was ready to depart, another passenger slipped inside of the colorful vehicle. A man this time. "Where to, mon?" Bastian asked in that cheery, sing-song Jamaican accent.

The man mumbled an address that had Bastian's arms break out in gooseflesh. "You sure you got the right address, mon?" He peeked at the passenger through his rear view mirror. Hunts Point in the South Bronx was not a place he liked to travel to, even in the daylight. It was a bad, bad area, full of abandoned buildings, prostitutes and violent crime. What this well-dressed man was going to do there besides probably get robbed, killed or both was beyond Bastian's comprehension.

As the passenger nodded, Bastian let out a sigh and pulled into traffic, setting the meter. He _had_ to take the man there, or else he could lose his taxi license, and they were pretty damn hard to come by in a city where taking a taxi was like catching your breath. Damn. He'd have to hustle to make sure he was back in time to pick up Mrs. Frayne.

**Back at the BWG headquarters…**

Dhannie and Levi pulled up on the side of the canopied doorway. "Pretty nice neighborhood for a buncha college kids," Lee remarked. He noticed the crowd across the street. "Lookit that, Dhannie. Reminds me of the crowds outside of the Dakota, when John Lennon lived there."

Dhannie snorted. "You were all of what, five, when Lennon was gunned down?"

"I seen the pictures." He shivered. Any one of those nice little girls or guys might be a deranged fan with a pistol. No wonder Wheeler got them bodyguards. He flipped his badge at the doorman. "We're expected up on the 14th."

Dave hooked a finger at the man-mountain waiting inside. "Big John will escort you up." He opened the door for the detectives and sighed. He felt bad for the kids, he really did. They were all respectful, nice and polite. He also wasn't above making a quick fifty or so when asked for some "inside" information. After all, who was it harming?

The detectives were duly impressed as the renovated freight elevator shot them straight to the 14th floor. Big John said little, other than they were meeting with the young adults who were in residence, in the apartment of the two single girls.

The door was slightly ajar; Big John knocked softly and announced their arrival. They looked around with interest as they were led to the living room.

The large apartment was the complete antithesis of Lavigne's place. Expecting another showplace, they were surprised by the comfy old furniture and homey atmosphere. It sure didn't look like the pampered daughters of two billionaires lived there. It looked like _home_.

Five pairs of eyes turned to greet them, all wary. _What a buncha good-lookin' kids._ The thought crossed Lee's mind as Dhannie was spieling out the requisite identification.

A tall, dark-haired man spoke. "I'm Brian Belden. This is my brother Mart, and our friend Daniel Mangan. The girls are Madeline 'Honey' Wheeler and Diana Lynch." Dhannie took a long look at Mangan. They were familiar with his juvie record, and he still retained some of that bad-boy charisma that was such a draw to some of the female population.

"My brother Jim and his wife Trixie are not here," Honey piped up. "Jim's sitting for the LSATs today and Trix is working over at Locard, helping Dr. Breitling with a case."

"That's James Winthrop Frayne the second, correct?" Lee asked. "Although he really isn't your _brother_."

Honey's topaz eyes flashed fire at the men. "He is _most certainly is_ my very own full-blooded adopted brother," she stormed at them. "_Lots_ of siblings don't have the same last name."

Dhannie quickly backtracked. "Okay. I assume you know why we're here. Paul Trent was murdered. We're assigned to the case. We're interviewing people he may have had contact with in the City."

Dan snorted. "The little weasel never contacted us. He preferred hiding in the bushes, taking his photos to Photoshop later for that piece of sh…crap he worked for."

"Please understand, we have to ask this," Dhannie said. "Where were you all on Saturday?"

"Oh that's easy enough," the beautiful dark-haired woman said. "We were all at Misto Cay in the Caribbean. Jim flew us all out on Friday afternoon to get away from…from all the commotion." Di looked down at her hands.

"So you were there…" Lee trailed off.

"From Friday and we left Sunday. You can check it with the flight logs at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey and you can contact Misto Cay," Brian supplied smartly.

"Does Jim often arrange these little trips?" Lee asked. "On the spur of the moment?"

Mart's face flushed. "No, Jim does not. It's not like him to throw around money like that. But these are extraordinary circumstances. He just wanted to get away, wanted us all away from the circus out there." He gestured wildly at the window.

Brian took one look at Mart's face and took charge of the conversation. "To answer your questions, no, Paul Trent never made any contact with any of us here in New York City. Yes, we were all out of the country when he was murdered. And no, we don't know who did it. I'm sure a man like he was made lots of enemies. I can't lie and say I'm sorry he's dead after all the anguish he caused us, but we didn't do it."

Dan had had enough of the veiled insinuations. "And now, this interview is terminated. Please contact our attorneys if you want to have any further discussion with us." And with that, the interview was terminated.

Back in the car, feeling the weight of disapproval from the little group upstairs, Lee took the wheel. "They have a solid alibi."

"I don't like them for it, Lee, or the parents either." Dhannie gave a sigh. "Transient hotel, dicey occupants. Maybe one of them decided to play a little rough with Trent."

"I still think we're missing something big." Lee thought of the void on the wall of the Trent's sad little room.

Yup. They were missing something, and maybe that void held the answer.

**At Locard Headquarters…**

The second day alone in the big brownstone, and Trixie was beginning to relax. Even though the others weren't physically there, it was business as usual. The phone still rang constantly, and a stream of emails kept her hopping.

And in between all of that, she was doing some investigating. _What a novel concept!_

There were a lot of house fires in the Midwest and West Coast over the course of twenty or so years. A lot of them had fatalities. She didn't expect such a large number of them to involve women or girls named Rebecca/Becky. It was such an old-fashioned name, but who was she to talk? At least Becky had the pioneer-woman-fighting-the-odds-to-stand-by-her-man connotation.

_Trixie_ just sounded like a hooker in a bad noir film. _Beatrix_ sounded more like someone's batty old maid aunt who added arsenic to her guests' tea.

She decided to narrow down her search by adding some of the keywords Will provided, and hoped that Google would be kind to her.

**At an abandoned building in Hunt's Point, South Bronx…**

"You're absolutely sure this is the address I gave you," the man in the back seat was asking Bastian.

"Yeah, mon." He pointed to the crumbling brick wall with the painted on numbers barely visible. "See? Right there."

The man cupped his cheek in his hand, and then ran it through his hair. "There must be some mistake with the office. I'm supposed to be meeting a client for a conference." He stepped out of the taxi. "Can you wait here a second while I just look over there?"

"Sure. But be snappy. This 'hood is not where I like to be hangin' around." Bastian had his eye on the tired-looking hooker next block up. _This must be where old hookers come to die, cause she ain't gonna get any business out there. I hope she doesn't spot us, mon. All I need is to get rolled by one of them._ He shifted in his seat, craning his neck to look for the businessman who suddenly disappeared.

He almost jumped out of his skin when the man knocked at his window. Rolling it down, Bastian turned to face his fare.

"It was completely the wrong address," the man was saying, an apologetic note in his voice. One hand rested lightly on the car's frame where the window disappeared into the depths of the door.

"I thought so, mon." Bastian gave him a wide smile.

The man bent, his face almost level with Bastian's grinning one. "Can you take me back to Manhattan?"

"Sure thing mon, just…" The man's left hand came out of nowhere, jamming the syringe into Bastian's exposed neck. The liquid inside burned as it began to spread.

"Now, what you want to do _that_ for?" Bastian heard his voice coming from far away. He wanted to raise his hand, slap at the man whose grinning face with wavering in front of him. His limbs felt like lead, and he couldn't even pray as the world went dark.

**Back at Locard…**

Damn Google anyway. Damn all search engines. Trixie blew out a frustrated breath. Some of the links returned had absolutely nothing at all to do with fires. Others led her to _Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm_ fanfic.

She finally clicked on the link that said Rebecca Jonsson, ABC Inc.

**Hunt's Point….**

He pushed the dead weight of Bastian's body across the seat and hopped into the driver's seat. The hooker up the street was not paying them any mind, focused instead on the one or two cars that passed the intersection.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. Time was running out very swiftly. He needed to get back to Manhattan. He pulled in between two buildings and popped the trunk, coming back around the passenger side to lift Bastian in a fireman's carry and deposit him, none too gently, in the trunk.

He gave the driver a cursory glance, and got his briefcase out of the back seat. Too bad he wouldn't have time to play with him. He ran a finger on Bastian's café au lait skin. He duct taped the man's feet and hands together, winding a long piece of tape over his mouth and around his dreadlocks.

The combination of the drug and being confined in a hot, airless place should have the result he was jonesing for. And maybe, just maybe, he might come back and play with the thing. But first, he had to get almost-Becky.

He slammed the trunk closed, got in the driver's seat, and headed off toward Greenwich Village, and the salvation he was sure to find there.

**Locard…**

Trixie was staring at the picture. A child-sized doll. But not the little baby dolls or little girl dolls she was accustomed to seeing. No, this one was definitely a woman.

Her hair was golden curls, spiraling down her graceful neck and framing her face. Her eyes were huge sapphire orbs, fringed with long curling lashes and real, working eyelids. A slight rose blush tinted her high cheekbones, and her lush, full mouth was a natural darker rose.

She wore a white, peasant style blouse with deep blue rickrack around the hem of the puffed sleeves – and just tight enough to showcase her obvious cleavage. The blouse was tucked into a matching blue skirt that ended just below the doll's knees. A white bib-style apron, with matching blue rickrack around the neck and across the pockets, and a flirty frill at the hem completed the dress.

Her shapely legs were encased in white tights and her delicate feet in blue suede maryjanes. Her hands were small and one might say, delicately boned.

_And she was dressed exactly like all the Dollmaker's victims._

Trixie sat back, stunned. If what she was thinking was true, the sadistic serial killer wasn't trying to _re_create a woman.

He was trying to _create_ a woman.

A woman in the image of a long-discontinued doll.

It never dawned on her that her own pretty face was a more exact match to Rebecca Jonsson than any of the others abducted and killed.

**Precinct House…**

It was bothering him. Bothering him and bothering him, just like the words to a song that were on the tip of your tongue, but wouldn't come out.

The void in the wall at Trent's place.

It meant something, Levi Halpern was sure of it. He stared at the crime scene photographs of the wall, stretched out on the table next to each other to create a panoramic view.

The other photographs were splashed and splattered with Trent's blood. But that void…just dirty wall there, with tiny holes where something had been pinned up.

_But what?_

Trent was a weird one. He had all these photos of a group a kids from his hometown pinned on his wall. Kids he didn't like too much, was skewering in the rag he worked for. Hell, he would almost think the man was obsessed with them.

Levi rubbed his face, his thick beard already creating stubble on his cheeks. The rasping of it felt good. Like he was alive. Unlike the very dead Trent.

Dhannie came back to the small conference room they had co-opted. "Still looking at the wall, Lee?"

"Yeah. There's something about…" his voice trailed off. He raised shocked eyes to his partner and friend. "It's her," he said baldly.

"Who's her?" He didn't like the red rims around Lee's tired eyes.

"The void! The void Dhanraj! Look here," he pointed to the photographs lining the table. "Here's the seven of them. Then those two new kids. Brian and Mart Belden. Daniel Mangan. Madeleine Wheeler, then the void, then Diana Lynch and Jim Frayne. Who's missing?"

Dhannie stared into Lee's eyes, comprehension slowly dawning. "Trixie Frayne. There are no pictures of Trixie Frayne."

"He took them with him." They were both silent a moment, letting the thought sink in, turning it around, looking for holes.

There were none.

"You call the Mangan kid, I'll dial Brian Belden. Somebody's got to tell them. Trixie Frayne is in terrible danger right now." They were already out the door, headed to the 14th floor of a nice apartment building where bad things shouldn't happen.

But both had a sinking feeling they might have figured it out a little too late.

**Kimmel Student Center, NYU…**

Jim Frayne was staring impatiently at his watch. Trixie should be leaving Locard, and he wanted to get home to her in the worst way. He shouldn't have volunteered for the extra time to train the new student meal managers after the LSATs all morning. One of them was full of questions he had just answered, and it took all of his patience not to snap at the girl and tell her to pay attention, dammit.

Of course, he had no idea that she was simply star-struck at meeting him. The thought would never even cross his mind.

The basin of dishes went crashing to the ground, and Jim swore lightly under his breath. Masking his impatience, he said, teeth clenched, "Let's get this mess cleaned up."

**Dan's cell phone…**

Dan looked at the caller ID on his cell phone. Levi Halpern? Oh yeah, that NYC detective. He had better things to do than answer silly questions from a guy who should still be walking the beat. He had no qualms as he sent the call to voicemail.

**Brian's cell phone…**

He thought he heard bells ringing for a moment. He lifted his head to listen, but all sense fled when Honey pulled his head back down to hers and her fingers continued their slide to where he needed them the most.

After that, neither of them heard anything for a very long time.

**Back at Locard…**

She was sure she found something. _Positive._ She typed out a text message to Will, Stephen and Anna, explaining her find. She wanted to do more, but the alarm buzzed on her watch, signaling it was time to pack up and meet Bastian for the terrifying ride home.

The taxi was there, just as she expected it to be, but the man standing next to the door was definitely not Bastian, with his lilting Jamaican accent and his bouncing dreads. "Where's Bastian?" she asked, as the tall man helped her into the passenger seat, settling her messenger bag on the floor.

"He got tied up unexpectedly and asked me to pick you up. Name's Hunter," he said, in a quiet, almost reverent voice. Becky! She was just as beautiful as her pictures, even more so, her skin warm and the fragrance of raspberries in that mass of golden curls.

"Oh. Sorry to hear that," she remarked. Her mind was busy whirling with her discovery. She hoped Will or Stephen got back to her soon. She pulled out her cell phone to look at it, make sure she didn't miss a message.

The driver leaned in the back seat, crowding over her. "Excuse me?" she said, as he reached over her body.

"Have to put on your seat belt." He was staring at her, his breath coming in tiny, rapid pants as he pulled he seat belt around her and snapped it in.

Her innate sense of danger radar suddenly kicked on. "Oh, I left my purse in the office," her fingers were fumbling with the catch on the belt.

"You belong with _me_, Becky," Hunter said, exposing his colorless eyes to her horrified gaze. The syringe went in her side, nice and deep, flooding her system with every frightened beat of her heart.

"_You..you_.." Her voice was thick, her limbs heavy as she beat a weak fist against his arm. She was going to go under. She couldn't fight it, not even the indomitable Trixie Belden Frayne.

With the last ounce of strength, she slipped off her wedding rings and secreted them in the seam between the seat and the back. She shivered as Hunter ran his hand through her curls and murmured, "Soft, so soft and pretty. And _mine_."

The last thing she felt was the brush of his lips against her slack mouth, and his jovial exclamation.

"_Let's go home, Becky."_


	35. Tabloid Trix Chapter 34

Tabloid Trix Chapter 34

The unmarked police vehicle skidded to a stop in front of the elegant apartment building, lights strobing on the skyscrapers' canyon walls of Manhattan. The two men leaped out and corralled the doorman.

"This is an emergency," Dhannie tried to explain to the frightened man. "We need to get up to the 14th floor, NOW."

"Hold up. Hold it a minute." Mel grabbed the house phone and punched in the code to the bodyguards' temporary home. "Police are here, they're saying it's an emergency." Mel looked up. "I don't have the override key. Big John will be right down."

Dhannie and Lee waited impatiently until the doors slid open, and they charged in to Big John's waiting arms. "Now," Lee shouted at the man. "Now! Call all of the kids that are home. Do you have either Trixie or Jim Frayne's phone number? That Dan kid shut us down before we could get it."

By the time Big John looked up the numbers, the hallway was filled with inquisitive Bob-Whites, milling about and talking loudly amongst themselves. The consensus was that the police found Trent's murderer. What _else_ could the detectives want from them?

Lee blasted the group with a shrill whistle. It wasn't the Bob-White whistle they used, but it had the same effect. As Dhannie began to talk, the elevator suddenly opened to reveal Dan, Aidan and Kaitlin.

"We have discovered some unsettling news about Trent's death," Dhannie began, to be interrupted by a large, sarcastic sigh from Dan.

"His death has nothing at all to do with us," Honey interjected. "Nothing."

"That's where you're wrong," Levi Halpern spat out. "It has _everything_ to do with you. I'm going to ask you a simple question. Has anyone heard from Trixie Frayne since she left for her job?"

"Well, no, but that's not unusual," Mart chimed in. "Jim had the LSATs this morning and then worked an extra shift at the student union." Why was there a sudden frisson of fear down his back?

Just then the elevator opened again, to a tired looking Jim. His russet eyebrows rose when he saw the crowd milling about in the hallway. He saw two men he did not recognize and a number of different expressions on the faces of his family and friends. "What's going on? Why is everyone in the hall? Is this a drill or something?" He peered around, looking for a headful of blonde curls.

"Let's take this inside," Dhannie said. As they filed into the girls' apartment, there was a lot of low level muttering going on. "Everyone have a seat."

"Jim, these are the two detectives working on Paul Trent's murder," Brian said as they all perched on the sofas or chairs. "Detectives Halpern and Jayaram."

Dhannie scrubbed a weary hand on the back of his neck. "As I was saying, we have some information, recent information that puts a whole new spin on this case. Paul Trent was writing scurrilous articles about all of you."

Jim snorted. "Tell us something we _don't_ know."

"A review of the crime scene revealed something very disturbing," Dhannie continued, looking straight at Jim. "Trent had photographs of all of you pinned to his wall. _All of you_," he stressed.

"Why would he do that?" Diana began twirling a piece of her hair. It seemed kind of…gross.

"Who knows? Inspiration? Lust? Envy? What I will tell you now has not been made public. Paul Trent was butchered alive in his apartment. There was blood everywhere. The…the perp took his eyes."

Eight pairs of stunned eyes looked back at the two detectives. Levi Halpern took up the narrative. "There was one other thing missing at Trent's apartment." And then he dropped the bomb.

"The perp took all the photographs of Trixie Frayne. _Every single one_."

**In an alley in Manhattan…**

The brightly-colored taxi pulled up to the van with the innocuous words painted on either side, and the ladders bolted on top. Vincenzo's Electrical Connection was advertised along the doors, with a big dancing plug (nicknamed Pluggy) on both sides. Of course, if anyone tried to call the advertised number, all they would get was a recording advising that the number was disconnected, did they feel they received this message in error?

He worked quickly, getting the dead weight of almost-Becky out of the taxi and into the back of the van. As he lay her gently down on the pallet he prepared beforehand, he could not resist running a hand through those pretty, golden curls.

Curls that didn't come off in his hand as he stroked them.

He locked the taxi up and left it there, and drove away. His destination was not too far. Becky was waiting there for him, and soon the transformation would be complete.

He wondered why he wasn't quite that excited about it anymore.

**At the girls' apartment…**

Jim had his telephone out, dialing Trixie's cell before Halpern had the second sentence out.

"Hi! This is Trixie Frayne! Leave a message."

"Hi! This is Trixie Frayne! Leave a message."

"Goddamn it, pick up Trix," Jim growled into the phone, a rising sense of panic swamping him. Honey had her phone out, repeatedly dialing Locard and getting the same message.

"She might be in the taxi, on the way home," Brian offered up. Yes. That was it. In the taxi, with that crazy Jamaican driver, safe, on the way home to them. His voice shook. "Let me call the dispatch." He stared blankly at his phone. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the name of the taxi company_. His sister was out there, missing, and he couldn't remember_.

Mart was already on the phone with them, and when he turned back to the detectives, his face was absolutely white. "Bastian's wife says he hasn't reported back in hours, not to her or any of their other drivers."

Dhannie was already on the line with the precinct barking instructions, while Lee tried to calm everyone down. "She could have taken the subway. She could be on her way up her now."

Jim raised bleak eyes to Dhannie's. "You don't understand. _This is Trixie_. If there's a damn criminal out there, you can be sure he'll find her."

Aidan walked over to the window, silent. Somewhere out there, a murderer might have the woman he still cared for. She might already be dead. And his insides twisted as surely as the insides of the man with the haunted green eyes.

Honey quietly left the room, and dialed the special number Trixie had given her. She hoped and prayed that the man at the other end would answer, and that the call would not go to voicemail. For once, fate was on her side.

"Brietling here."

**5 Beekman Street, Manhattan…**

The outside of the skyscraper looked like any office building in Manhattan. It was a bit more crumbly than most, and the storefronts were all boarded up, but that was not unusual in this economy. Some landlords were skimping on maintenance and stores just seemed to flash in and out of business at warp speed.

Passers-by would be fascinated to know that the building had been abandoned for decades. Built in 1882, the inside was once gorgeous. Delicate ironwork railings and ceiling; a fantastic glass atrium on the ninth floor. Twin towers gave the whole place a medieval feel.

And now, owned by RJL, Inc.

The van with the dancing plug made some people smile and others roll their eyes as it turned into the loading dock of the old building. If anyone at all stopped to think about it, they supposed someone in the building was having work done, and dismissed it from their thoughts. Vans with all kinds of ads were a common occurrence in the congested streets of Manhattan.

The man inside the van pressed a garage door opener, and the extremely strong, recently-installed metal loading dock door rolled silently aloft, as the van drove up the ramp and right into the dock area. The last view anyone had, if they bothered to look, was the door making its silent journey to its resting place. And if they were within hearing distance, they would have heard the distinctive snick of the powerful lock that kept the riffraff out…

And whatever dwelled there, within.

**On a plane bound to Teterboro airport from Montréal…**

Will Brietling had rarely felt the fear that was now creeping up his spine. Even when he was interviewing the most crazed serial killer, rapist or other deviant, he was academically interested in a sort of remote way.

_Until Trixie_. Until Honey Wheeler's call to let him know Trixie was missing. And that somebody who killed once could be after her. Could have already gotten hold of her.

_Now_ he knew what all the friends and families of the victims felt. And he would never again look at them with the cool, impartial observation of a scientist.

Anna and Stephen were on their way back, too. They were now conferenced in with the two detectives assigned to the case. They were out in the hallway, out of hearing of the shell-shocked Bob-Whites, who were making the dreaded calls to the parents.

"So what you're saying is every photo of Trixie was removed after Trent was killed," Will reiterated. "How was he killed?"

Levi Halpern took a deep breath. "He was butchered alive. He was give some sort of a paralytic agent and the perp…the perp just had a fine old time cutting him open. There was blood everywhere."

Dhannie scrubbed at his tired, bloodshot eyes. "The strange thing is, the perp surgically removed Trent's eyes. Weird."

Will's heart actually gave a painful lurch in his chest. The scenario his brilliant mind was devising couldn't be true.

_It just couldn't._

**5 Beekman Street, Manhattan…**

He was carrying his most precious cargo to the old-fashioned elevator. Instead of a cold, impersonal box, it was a filigreed cage that once gave its passengers glimpses of each elegant floor. Her head, full of real gold curls, lay against his shoulder, those soft curls smelling of some sort of berry and tickling his nose.

It was quite pleasant, he decided.

The elevator creaked and clanged its way up, passing decades of neglect, but a discerning person would look and see the spectacular details that still shone through. The bones of the structure were like the bones of an elegant woman, shining through her age and making you remember the beauty she once was.

The elevator stopped at the ninth floor, flooded with sunshine from the enormous hidden atrium. He could envision it, restored, the ironwork gleaming and the mosaic tile floor a pretty pattern against the green. It would be full of exotic plants _just_ for her.

_Orchids_. He could see her with an orchid pinning up one side of those pretty curls like a blonde Dorothy Lamour. And maybe, just a little blood. The merest _whisper_ of scarlet to provide a touch of color.

One of the doors leading off of the atrium was partially open. It was a good thing he did not sleep much; there was a lot of preparation for this momentous occasion. He pushed the door in with his foot, and looked around for his broken Becky.

"Let me see! Let me see!" Her voice came from the large canopied bed in the middle of the room. It was white, a pure altar for the two Beckys to merge at last. The canopy was covered in white mosquito netting, pooling on the floor of the four posts. Fluffy, lacy pillows rested against the headboard, and the bed was covered in a white on white satin comforter.

He gently laid almost-Becky next to her, watching how her hair spread out over the pillow like a pool of molten gold. This was the right Becky. He knew it in his bones.

The unflinching blue eye stared at her for the longest time, and then brought its shiny hardness back to his face. "She's perfect," Becky breathed. "_Just perfect, darling_."

He expelled a breath he didn't know he was holding, and flashed a brilliant smile at her. "Yes. Perfect."

His hands shook as they began to undress almost-Becky, preparing her for the final phase of his plan. He tried very hard not to listen to that insistent voice telling him that red would make a very bold statement on all that white.

**The 14****th**** floor…**

It was chaos inside and chaos outside. Fans were screaming behind police barricades. Several police vehicles, their lights flashing in a red, white and blue syncopated beat were haphazardly parked outside the building.

Inside, the doors to the three apartments were wide open, as police, parents and shell-shocked Bob-Whites milled around, trying to make sense, create a timeline, do _something_ to help their daughter, sister, friend and wife.

It was the first time Will Brietling ever stepped foot in Trixie and Jim's apartment, and he regretted it was under such circumstances. He pulled a cloth out of one of his pockets, cleaned his glasses and watched James Frayne pace.

"Jim, let's go over everything again. You're not doing Trixie any good if you have a panic attack."

Jim turned an anguished face to the gaunt man. "I'm not doing any good sitting here talking to you. I should be out there, _looking _for her, doing _something_." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket for the umpteenth time and checked it. No messages from Trixie.

He sat across from Will, trying to make his heart slow down, trying not to let the fear and panic overwhelm him. He laughed, a bitter sound in the quiet of the room. "All this time, and Trixie needed the protection. _Not me_. She should have had the bodyguard. _Not me_."

"Jim, hindsight is always 20/20. We have to go with what we know, and piece it together like a puzzle. Your detective is the best at it," he smiled.

Jim rubbed a weary hand through his thick red hair. "I saw her in the morning. We were both in a rush. She had an early class and I had the LSATs. I told her I took an extra shift at the student union, because I knew she was going to Locard after class." A small smile tilted the corners of his lips. "She was still a little pissed at me for renting that island without telling her. I told her I was going to make back some of the money I spent, and we laughed about it."

The insistent chime of Will's cell phone broke the silence. "Damn it, I told them not to put anyone through." Ignoring it, he motioned for Jim to continue.

"And that's it. We called and texted each other a couple times, and she didn't indicate anything was wrong."

The chime went off again, indicating an urgent message. "Let me look at this Jim," he said, pulling up the email from the office. God help whoever was sending him stupid emails at a time like this.

_It was from Trixie._

**Lissa Ann Thorne's apartment…**

She flopped on her couch and flipped on the news. "Police are requesting everyone stay away from the scene," the news anchor was saying, while the screen filled with bright flashing lights. The camera pulled away to reveal a familiar burgundy canopy. "Anything new you can tell us, Roseanne?"

"No, Tom, the police are being very tight lipped about what is happening in this luxury apartment building across fromr Central Park. We did see Matt and Madeleine Wheeler, as well as Ed and Sharon Lynch being escorted inside."

"There have been some rather disturbing articles in the tabloid press regarding their children lately," Tom said, in that absent way newscasters had.

"We also saw Dr. William Brietling of the Locard Society being escorted inside, and sources say Stephen Jensen has cut short a speaking engagement in Boston to return to the city," Roseanne intoned. "We'll keep an eye on this breaking story and update you as soon as the police release a statement."

She was already shrugging into a light jacket, stuffing her wallet with her Interpol credentials in the pocket. She didn't want to use them, but this was critical. She was going to see Jim Frayne and Dr. Brietling if it was the last thing she ever did.

_She's missing and _he_ has her. Please God, let me not be too late. _


	36. Tabloid Trix Chapter 35

Tabloid Trix Chapter 35

Will Brietling stared at the screen of his iPhone as if he was receiving a message from the grave. He glanced at Jim, and said hoarsely, "It's from Trixie."

"Where is she? Is she okay?" Jim jumped up to look at the screen, almost grabbing the cell phone out of Will's hand.

"It's from earlier in the day," Will lamented. "She must have sent it when I was on the plane. It was just delivered now." An anxious Jim watching over his shoulder, Will opened the short message.

_Will, found out something interesting. Pix and info to file Becky on computer ~ Trixie_

Blindly reaching down for his messenger bag, Will made a grab for it and unloaded his laptop. Booting it up, he logged onto Locard and his email.

And there she was. _Becky._ Not a living being, but an item made out of plastic and cloth and with big blue unblinking eyes.

_Will. This doll hit the market 20 yrs. ago. She's wearing an almost duplicate copy of the clothing the victims of the Dollmaker were dressed in. He's not trying to re-create a woman. He's trying to create a living breathing replica. Trixie._

"What's all this?" Jim asked. He was staring at the picture on the screen of the doll that, in a weird way, sort of resembled his wife. His heart beat painfully against his chest when he realized this might be the last communication from her. _Ever_.

"It's a case I was consulting on in Canada. I asked Trixie to do some research for me." He stared up at Jim, excitement and sorrow warring for supremacy in him. "She just might have provided a huge piece of the puzzle that will allow us to solve a serial killer case spanning _decades_." He couldn't give voice to the thought yet that the Dollmaker may have abducted Trixie. They had no proof.

An IM popped up on the screen from Anna.

Anna C: _Will, sending you security footage from the camera outside_.

Will B: _Did it catch anything?_

Anna C: _Shows Trixie getting into one of Bastian's cabs, but he is NOT the driver._

A few seconds later, Will was fumbling trying to get the attachment opened, and waiting impatiently while it buffered. Jim was pale, sweaty, his heart thundering in his chest. And then she appeared on the screen, and his whole world tilted to one side.

She had her purse and laptop case with her, and she smiled quickly at the driver. She appeared to ask him a question as she was climbing into the back of the car. The driver then pulled something out of his pocket and leaned into the car. Before he shut the door, the camera captured Trixie slumping in the seat.

And then, something incredible happened. The driver looked up at the security camera and smiled. With a jaunty two-finger salute, he jumped in the driver's seat and took off.

"He knew it, damn it," Jim exploded. "He knew the cameras were there, and yet he took her anyway." _What did that grinning sonofabitch do to her to make her slump over like that? Where was his detective now?_

Will was galvanized by the sheer audacity of the abductor. But the cameras revealed something else. _Trixie had her laptop with her._

Will B: Trixie has her laptop with her.

Anna C: Already notified LoJack. Let the detectives there know. They should be tracking it by now.

He turned to Jim, wanting to give the man a sliver of hope. Hell, he wanted to grab onto it like a lifeline himself. "Trixie's computer is equipped with LoJack. Anna notified the company. The police should be able to track it."

"And if they track the computer, we may be able to find her." Jim closed his eyes, said a quick prayer.

"I'm going to go next door to the girls' apartment and see if I can talk to the detectives. If LoJack is tracking Trixie's computer, the Police Department will relay that information to them." Will clapped Jim's shoulder. "This is a good thing Jim." Leaving his computer on the table, Will scurried out of the room.

Jim walked over to the front window, leaning his forehead against the cool glass. Trixie was out there somewhere. She was out there alone, with just her wits to get by. Putting his large hand palm first against the glass, he prayed his detective was up to the task.

**The boys' apartment... **

Aidan's stomach was churning. People were milling about between the three apartments, and he felt like no one was doing anything. How could she be kidnapped in broad daylight? So much for the great protection the Wheelers and Lynches offered. It seemed to Aidan they were all about protecting their _own_, and screw Trixie.

Kaitlin came in silently behind him, twining her arms around him and hugging him tightly to her. "Nobody's paying attention to us commoners little brother. I don't think we're going to find out anything tonight. Do you want to go home and get some rest?"

"I couldn't rest Kaitlin. Not while she's still out there. I'd just drive myself crazy downstairs. And I'd probably drive you crazy too. I know you want to be close to Dan."

Kaitlin gave a heavy sigh, and rubbed her pretty face against her brother's shoulder. "She is not yours, Aidan."

"I know that Kaitlin. I know she belongs to Jim. I know that in my head as sure as I know anything else. The problem is," he said, putting his hand over his heart, "I just can't seem to accept it here."

"I love you, Ace, I love you a lot. Just give it some time. Maybe it wasn't a good thing for us to move into this apartment building. Maybe it's not a good thing that I'm dating Dan. Maybe we need to get away from the Bob-Whites."

"Don't ever think that Kaitlin. This is _my_ battle. You need to go after your own happiness and not worry about me. I saw Dr. Breitling head on over to Trixie and Jim's. I know Jim doesn't like me very much, but maybe they heard something. I'm going to go snooping over there."

Giving his sister a quick kiss on her head, he broke from her embrace. He just hoped that Jim Frayne wouldn't decide to use him as a punching bag.

**5 Beekman…**

She slowly rose to consciousness, the mists clouding her brain seeming to dissipate like morning fog in a hot sun. Her eyes fluttered once, twice, and finally opened. She was surrounded by white for a moment, and for a panicked moment in time, she thought she was dead. Wasn't there supposed to be a white light when you die?

When her division cleared enough to focus, she was able to make out the gauzy canopy that surrounded her like an enveloping cloud. Not daring to move too much, she tried to look around.

_She was in a bed. A beautiful white canopied bed, made for a Princess. A light coverlet insured she didn't catch a chill; soft and comfortable pillows surrounded her. She slipped her hands under the covers, dreading what she would find there._

Trixie breathed a sigh of relief. She was still clothed; however, her relief turned to consternation when her hands slid over fabric that definitely did not match the items she dressed in that morning.

She took a self-inventory. She didn't feel that much different other than a pounding headache. She flopped back against the pillows, and screamed when the disfigured and burned Becky seemed to leap from nowhere and sprawl haphazardly across her face.

**The Bob-Whites' apartment building…**

Will Breitling approached the two detectives that were speaking with Mr. and Mrs. Belden. Peter Belden was looking thunderous, and Helen Belden looked stricken. Motioning Dhannie to his side, Will informed him that Trixie's laptop was with her at the time of the kidnapping.

"The laptop is equipped with LoJack, Detective, and it has been activated." Peter Belden, overhearing the conversation, grabbed Will's arm.

"That means we can track my daughter, right? Like a stolen car." The relief on the faces of Trixie's parents was wrenching. Both men were more than aware of what they might find when the computer was located. They didn't have the heart to dampen their spirits.

Levi broke into the little group. "We located the taxi. Alleyway down in Alphabet City. Uniforms are securing the crime scene. Let's roll."

Peter Belden stopped him with a hand. "I want to come. She's…she's my daughter."

"Not now, Mr. Belden. We need to see what we have here. I promise as soon as we know anything, I'll give you a call. It's best if you stay here for now."

Helen's voice was shrill. "I know why you don't want him to go. Did they find Trixie's body? Is that it? Please, she's our little girl." Her voice broke, and she burst into tears. Maddie and Sharon came running over, smoothing calming hands through her hair and enfolding her in their arms.

"Mrs. Belden, we don't have a report of a body. I promise you, we'll be in touch as soon as possible. Lee and I need to get down to the…the alley." God help him, he almost said _dump site_ to this woman barely keeping it together.

Aidan's face drained of color. No-one even noticed him as he passed through the hall, and into the open doorway of Jim and Trixie's apartment.

**In an alleyway near Alphabet City…**

The uniforms did a pretty good job of cordoning off the alley and keeping the curious away. As Dhannie and Levi skidded to a stop, the officer patrolling yellow "crime scene" tape snapped to attention.

"Who was the first on the scene?" Levi snapped out as they ducked under the bright yellow banner.

"I was. We picked up the signature from the LoJack in our cruiser. Officer Donovan." The kid was a fresh-faced recent academy graduate. You could always tell.

"You didn't touch anything, did you, Donovan?" Dhannie needed to know if the scene was compromised in any way.

"No. My partner and I…Jack King, he's on the other side of the alley, we peered in the car but didn't see anything. Just a purse and a messenger bag."

Levi grunted in return. God, he hated these alley dumps. There was always broken glass, the strong smell of urine and rotting garbage. Add the distinctive scent of decomposing flesh and he often wished for some kind of a brush to stick up his nose to get the smell out.

The two detectives pulled out their flashlights and examined the interior of the taxi. Like Donovan relayed, there was Trixie's messenger bag and her purse. One of the beams caught the glint of something shoved between the backrest and seat in the passenger portion in the car.

"Hey Lee, the meter is still running." That was going to be some whopper of a bill.

"Dhannie. Look." The strong, harsh light glinted off the syringe on the floor of the car. "Maybe get a print off it."

"So the perp injected her with something when he leaned in, Makes sense." Donning plastic gloves, they had the officer open the door with the pry bar. The forensic team arrived and began to process the scene.

"We can confirm the purse and messenger bag belong to the victim," one of the team said. He pulled out a wallet with her driver's license on it. "Locard computer is in the other bag."

Another one was carefully bagging the syringe in a brown paper evidence bag. "See what's stuck between the seam," Levi directed.

The technician pulled out a gorgeous wedding ring set. "Rings. A wedding set. There's an inscription inside. _JWF's Special Girl_ and the infinity sign."

God. _JWF_. James Winthrop Frayne. She was able to remove her rings and slide them in the seam. _Good girl_, Levi thought._ If the perp dumped the purse and bags, we could identify she was in the taxi with the ring and also get epithelials. You're thinking like a detective._

Grim-faced, the two detectives moved to the rear of the taxi. "Pop the trunk," growled Dannie, and he closed his eyes, just for a second. _Please don't let us see curly blonde hair._

And when they opened the trunk, he realized his prayer was answered, after a fashion.

**Back at the Bob-Whites'…**

Lissa Thorne flashed her credentials to one of the officers manning the chaotic scene in front of the apartment building. "Interpol," she said briefly, and watched as the young officer waved her inside. She prayed the doorman wouldn't recognize her.

He was too busy to even notice. He just pointed her in the right direction, and went back to fielding angry complaints from the other tenants.

Lissa approached the bank of elevators hoping that the bodyguard who prevented her from seeing Trixie the other day was not guarding the elevator. Again luck was with her. She flashed her credentials to Big John and again briefly said Interpol. Nodding, the large man that was inside the freight elevator pressed his hand to the glass.

"I didn't think that they were going to call Interpol in," he said. "Do they think Trixie was taken out of the country?"

"I don't know what they think. I need to be briefed when I get upstairs. You know how the NYPD is. They keep everything close to the chest." What she said was not quite a lie, but not quite the truth either. She just hoped that she could get to talk to Jim Frayne, because he might be the only one who would believe her.

When they reached the 14th floor, the bodyguard turned to her and said, "There are only three apartments on this floor. They all belong to the Bob-Whites. The families and the other law enforcement agencies that are here are drifting between the apartments."

"Which apartment belongs to Jim and Trixie Frayne? Could you point that out to me? I really need to speak to Mr. Frayne first."

Big John was happy to comply. "The Fraynes live in the last apartment on the left. Take it easy with Jim won't you? He's very, very close to losing it."

Lissa patted the big man on the arm. "I'm here to help. Believe me I know what he's going through." By the look in her eyes and the somber expression on her face, the big man could believe it. Something bad had happened to this woman and it was reflected in her sad eyes. He only hoped that whatever experience or assistance she could offer could mitigate some of the heartache these people, who he had come to care for, were suffering at this moment.

The hallway was deserted, although the doors to all the apartments were open. Taking a deep breath, Lissa went in search of Jim Frayne.

**5 Beekman…**

She flung the doll off her face and almost across to the other side of the bed. _What the hell was_ _that thing?_ She blinked her eyes, trying to clear them and opened them very, very slowly.

No one had come running at her scream and she was thankful for that. Trying to raise up her pounding head, she leaned back on her elbows.

_It was a doll. Not just any doll, but Becky. The clothes may have been worn and mended, the face may be disfigured and blackened, but she still could recognize the doll she had researched on the web._

It was then that Trixie realized the full importance of what had happened to her and the danger she was in. She realized her life was in the hands of the madman and serial killer known as the Dollmaker.

Staring at the virginal white that enshrouded her, her nimble brain came to a startling conclusion.

_She was going to be his bride._


	37. Tabloid Trix Chapter 36

Tabloid Trix Chapter 36

**Jim and Trixie's apartment…**

Aidan peered through the doorway, expecting to find a crowd of people comforting Jim. Instead, he found a dimly lit apartment and a tall man leaning against a window, his shoulders slumped. He debated briefly whether or not he should intrude, and was about to turn away when Jim pivoted and looked directly at him.

"I'm sorry Jim," Aidan said, a note of apology in his voice. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"It's okay, Aidan. Is there… is there any news out there?" He couldn't help the defeated tone in his voice. It always seemed Trixie had nine lives. But even nine lives ran out sometimes. And that was what he feared the most; that she was on the last of her nine lives.

"Actually there is, Jim. There is news. I'm surprised nobody came in here to speak to you. Apparently LoJack picked up the whereabouts of the taxi. Those two detectives, dumb and dumber, went to the scene. It was picked up in an alleyway down in Alphabet City."

"Great. Wonderful. I'm _just_ her husband. Was… was Trixie inside?"

"If it makes you feel any better, nobody made an announcement out there, either. I just happened to be skulking in the hallway and overheard the detectives. From what I was able to gather, I don't think Trixie was there."

Jim sank down on the couch, burying his face in his hands. After rubbing at his temples he looked up Aidan. "And you were coming over here because…"

"Because, because _I don't know_, Jim. Maybe because this is Trixie's apartment. Maybe because I just wanted to be close to her things. Believe me, I know she's yours. But you know what she's like and it's kind of hard to get over her." Aidan sent up a quick prayer that Jim wouldn't get up and sock him one in the mouth.

Just for a moment, Jim contemplated doing just that. But as he looked into the grey-green eyes of his rival for Trixie's affections, he could see the same misery that must be reflected in his own emerald ones. A small smile tilted the corner of his mouth. _Trixie would love this_, _the two men in her life, usually at odds with each other, sitting down in a deserted apartment and commiserating._

Fate was a bitch sometimes.

**The alleyway in Alphabet City…**

Levi and Dhannie were staring straight into the clouded eyes of Bastian, the missing taxi driver. "He's alive! Get the EMTs over here right away!" Lee was elated. It wasn't Trixie's body, and the taxi driver might be able to provide a clue_. Anything_. Any _thing_ right now.

"Use gloves when you're touching that duct tape. There might be latent prints on it." The detective stood off to one side while the EMTs worked on Bastian, peeling the tape carefully off his mouth and his dreadlocks.

"His pulse is a bit thready. His oxygen saturation is also a bit low. Let's get a mask on this guy and start a bag of Ringer's." The man's pupils were dilated, so he obviously was drugged in some way. "You are going tobe okay, man. Just relax. We got you now."

"Do you think he will be able to talk? I really need to ask him some questions." Dhannie hated to do it but the quicker they got answers, the faster they may be able to find Trixie before it was too late.

Bastian heard the men talking and was trying, with difficulty, to follow the thread of the conversation. He was safe. _Safe_. Tears sprang to his dark brown eyes. He was alive, living and breathing; if he could, he would have fallen to the ground on his knees and sent up a fervent thank you to Heaven.

An Indian man loomed over him, his voice gentle. "Can you talk?" he asked. "I am Detective Dhanraj Jayaram. Do you know who did this to you?"

Bastian shook his head; gestured for the oxygen mask to be removed. "It was just a fare," his voice was hoarse and gravelly, not at all like the musical lilt that was his tone.

"You picked him up in front of the Locard Society Building. It was after you dropped off Trixie Frayne," Dhannie prompted.

"Yes." He began to cough, and took another deep gulp of the oxygen. "It was strange. I never pick up fares there." His eyes widened. "Trixie! Did one of my other drivers pick her up?"

Dhannie's eyes slid over to someone out of the range of Bastian's vision. Choosing to ignore the question, he continued his interrogation. "Bastian, do you remember where the address was the fare asked to you drive him to?"

"Sure, mon. It was bad, really bad. In the South Bronx. I… I asked the dude if it was a right address. I mean hell, he looked so _normal_. He gave me some story about his company buying a building there or something." Bastian closed his eyes, his voice fading.

"What happened when you got to the address?" Dhannie hated to do it, he hated to press the obviously sick man, but they needed answers and they needed them _now_.

"I think he tried to pretend that there was some mistake. He got out of the taxi and the next thing I know he was yanking open the door and I felt the sting of the needle."

"Do you think he would recognize this man if you saw him again? Would you be able to work with the sketch artist?"

" , mon. Yeah." A light sweat had broken out on Bastian's forehead. Dhannie motioned to the EMTs to take him away. He wouldn't be any good to them if he expired now because of whatever was in that syringe.

"This perp _thinks_ he's a smart guy. He left behind a lot of stuff, including a living witness. What the hell do you think is going on here, Dhannie?" Levi was frustrated.

Dhannie leaned against the taxi, looking very relaxed. To those who knew him the best, the posture would reveal the signs of that exceptional intelligence kicking into high gear. "He _is_ a smart guy, Lee. We've got a lot of clues here, but not one of them is telling us where Trixie is. And not one of them is telling us where he took her or what he wants with her."

**Back at Jim and Trixie's…**

Aidan sat across from Jim on the loveseat. To be honest, he really would've loved to have Jim for a friend if he hadn't married Trixie. The other man looked so miserable that he attempted a little small talk in order to break the suffocating silence.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question, Jim?" He really did want to know something. And of course, it was about Trixie.

"Knock yourself out, man."

"Is it true that you pulled a gun on Trixie when you first met? I mean, the guys back in Sleepyside told me this wild story about Trixie and Honey breaking into some old mansion that burned down a long time ago. I thought they were all pulling my leg. Now I'm just wondering if it was all the truth."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Jim's lips. He stared down at his hands, remembering the feel of the shotgun in his hands as he pointed it at the two girls so many years ago. "It's absolutely, positively, without a doubt, true."

Aidan had to laugh. "I can't believe that you would ever, at any time, pull a gun on _Trixie_."

"I didn't know her then. All I knew was, I was a runaway staying in my uncle's old decrepit mansion, when Trixie and Honey broke in. My first thought was that my stepfather had found me, and was going to drag me back to his crappy little farm. I looked up and saw her and nothing has _ever_ been the same."

"Well, I guess that's the stuff legends are made of. You know, I just want to tell you that everybody in high school warned me that Trixie belonged to you. I just couldn't believe that you would let someone so beautiful and so much fun be available without staking an official claim. I guess I sort of figured if you were really serious about her, she'd be wearing your high school ring or something."

"For your information, Aidan, I gave my Trixie an engagement ring when she was 13 and I was 15." For a moment, Jim was lost in the memory of a snow bank, crystals sparkling across sandy eyelashes, and the relief he felt that she wasn't really in love with his cousin – and the chagrin when she rudely informed him she wouldn't marry him if he were the last man on earth.

"I'm sure there's more to this story than…"

A soft knock interrupted whatever Aidan was going to say. A tall woman with a cap of short dark hair was framed in the doorway. As both men looked at her, Lissa gave voice to the urgent question that may mean the difference between life and death for Trixie Belden Frayne.

"Which one of you is James Winthrop Frayne the second?"

**5 Beekman…**

When she tried to get up, her head began pounding and a wave of dizziness pressed her back against the pillows. Tears rose unbidden into her pretty eyes, now dulled by the headache and whatever drug he had administered to her. A bottle of water sat tantalizingly on the nightstand, and she wanted nothing so much as to reach over and drink deeply.

But it was probably drugged, too. When she skimmed Will's files on the Dollmaker, most of the early victims had no marks on them except for where it was assumed he had restrained them. There were no puncture marks or any other indication that a drug was administered to them by force. There were no defensive wounds either. That left one other supposition; that they were ingesting the drugs in their food or drink. She needed to keep her wits about her. No matter how much her mouth tasted like cotton, she wouldn't drink or eat anything he may bring her.

In the silence of the room, she heard the snick of the door unlocking. She closed her eyes and waited, cursing the fact she was still as weak as a newborn kitten, and there was nothing around her to use as a weapon.

The excitement in him was almost at maniacal levels. _He pulled it off._ He finally got his hands on almost – Becky. She was every bit the living and breathing incarnation of that long-ago Christmas present. Everything he worked for, everything Becky wanted was going to come _true_.

He pulled at some of the wispy curtain shrouding the bed away from its side, and sat on the mattress. Oh, almost – Becky could try to fool him, but he knew she was awake. Becky was in a different spot on the bed. He briefly wondered if Becky had tried to make friends with her human vessel.

"What do you think of her, Becky? Isn't she just perfect?" The man's voice rang out in the room, for a surreal moment Trixie wondered if he was speaking to her. A moment later, she realized he was speaking to the doll, because after a short pause he continued the conversation.

"I know you're jealous of her hair, Becky. But soon it's going to be _your_ hair_. Your hair, your skin, your beating heart._ You never have to be broken and disfigured again."

She wanted to scream. She was in a bed that was not her own, in a room that was decked out for a bride, with that crazy man talking to a doll who he thinks was responding to him. She and Honey had been in a lot of adventures, dealt with a lot of criminals and even had a few dealings with people that were not quite there, like Diana's fake uncle.

But she never had to deal with a psychopath before. That was something beyond her experience, and she needed to figure out a way to keep him away from her and to keep herself alive.

**Back at Jim and Trixie's…**

The woman walked into the apartment without invitation. She flipped open her wallet and said precisely, "Lissa Ann Thorne. Interpol."

Both Jim and Aidan stood, the same thought crossing their minds. Only Jim spoke it aloud.

"I'm James Frayne. Is this about Trixie? Do you have any additional information? Why on earth is Interpol involved?"

"Do you mind if I sit down? I do have some information. I need you to listen, and listen well. Is it all right if I speak in front of him?" She hooked a thumb over to where Aidan was standing.

Impatient, Jim's voice was brusque as he answered. "Look, lady, I don't care if you get a bullhorn, smash the window, and broadcast it to the world at large. If you have any information about my wife I want to know it _now_." He stuck his hands in his pocket, to better keep himself from going over there and just shaking it out of her.

"All right. I need you to be quiet and just listen to what I have to say. I know who has Trixie, I know why he took her, and I know what he wants to do with her. I've been tracking him for years."

The woman who introduced herself as Lissa Ann Thorne continued in her soft voice, almost speaking to herself. "I know who he is and what he is, because he's my brother."

**5 Beekman…**

"You can stop pretending you're asleep, almost – Becky." The man put his hand on Trixie's calf. "I know you're not. Becky knows you're not." His voice was almost sing-songy when he spoke to her.

She couldn't let him know how repulsed she was by his touch. She didn't move, didn't pull back, even though a shudder snaked up her spine. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes to look at her captor.

He was not what she expected, she thought in shock. She hadn't really gotten a good look at him in the taxi and now she took the time to study him. She almost anticipated a sort of Charles Manson clone, with wild eyes and a look of madness about him. Instead what she saw was a fairly good-looking man, someone you would pass in the street and not give a second thought to.

_Except for the eyes._

His eyes were almost colorless, frightening. Deep inside of them, she could almost see the flame of madness igniting. It wasn't an overt craziness, but a deep-seated insanity that was even more terrifying. He smiled at her, an even, white smile that spoke of careful dental maintenance. He extended his hand to her, his nails clean and manicured. "Hello, almost – Becky. We are going to be great friends. And lovers too. You'll have everything you ever wanted, and then some." He took her limp hand in his. His fingers felt cool against her overheated skin.

"I need to introduce myself. My name is Hunter. You may be familiar with my name. I am quite well known in some circles. Hunter. Hunter Lavigne."

**Back at Jim and Trixie's…**

Jim was out of his seat in a shot, pinning this Thorne lady to the chair. "What do you mean, your brother has my wife? If you know this, why come here? Why not go to the police?" He gave her a little shake.

Aidan stationed himself behind Lissa's chair, placing a strong hand on Jim's shoulder. In a quiet, but firm voice, he tried to defuse Jim's temper. "Jim. _Back off_. Let the lady have her say." He gave her a stern look. "After she says her piece, then we'll decide who we should contact."

Jim bit his bottom lip so hard he nearly drew blood. Reluctantly releasing her, he stepped back and growled, "Okay lady. Let's hear what you have to say. And make it snappy, or else I'll get Hulk in here and have him turn you over to the police, Interpol or no Interpol."

Lissa rubbed her arms, sure tomorrow that she would have bruises. She couldn't blame the man, though. He was obviously concerned with his young wife and it was eating him up on the inside. Clearing her throat, she spoke the words out loud that she wanted to say for so long.

"It's a long story, long and horrible. There was always something strange about my brother from the day he was born. I'm a few years older than he is. My mother never saw it, but my father and I did. She was just thrilled that he was a genius. At first, my dad and I wrote off his strangeness as a consequence of his high intelligence. You know, the stereotypical eccentric genius." She pinched the bridge of her nose, and closed her eyes.

"My brother became, God this is so hard to say, fascinated by a doll that I got for one Christmas. I thought the doll was creepy. But he was simply entranced by it. The doll's name was Rebecca Jonsson_. Becky_. Becky from Minnesota."

The color drained from Jim's face. "Don't tell me. She had curly blonde hair, big blue eyes and an apron with blue rick rack on it."

Lissa nodded, not even wondering how Jim came by this information. "My dad and I always suspected my brother was behind the disappearance of a number of family pets in our neighborhood, including our own. But we could never _prove_ anything. And my mother wouldn't even listen to us. Anyway, when my brother was about 12 years old or so, my father caught him using the doll for sexual purposes. He was always precocious. My father was so pissed, he took Becky and burned her, and made my brother watch. I know for a fact he went back and got Becky's remains." _Cold_. She was so _cold_. She wondered if she would ever be warm again.

"A few years later, I was out, you know, doing some teenage girl thing, and my brother was supposed to be away at computer camp. There was a fire and both my parents died. The authorities believed I died in the fire also. I believe my brother set that fire. It was too hot, too intense. And he inherited everything afterwards."

"How did you become involved in Interpol?" Aidan asked. If it wasn't for the fact that Trixie was missing and in the hands of a dangerous psychopath, this would be a pretty damn good adventure.

"My dad, bless his heart, had won the lotto – one of those big jackpots. Over the years, he created, I don't know, an escape plan and a new identity for me. He always said my brother would someday go after them. When dad won the lottery, my brother saw a way to get revenge on them and get rich at the same time. My dad hid a locker in a tree near our property. When I got home and saw that fire, I knew. I retrieved documents and clothes my dad secreted. The next day, I became Lissa Ann Thorne, and was on my way to France. I haven't been back since."

"This all sounds like some bad fan fiction," Jim said. "If you know all this, why didn't you go to the police or your superiors at Interpol? You might have saved some lives."

A fleeting pain flashed in her eyes. "Because they wouldn't believe me. My real name is Jody Lavigne. The last name may sound familiar to you. My brother is Hunter Lavigne, billionaire philanthropist and monster."

**5 Beekman…**

_My name is Hunter. Hunter Lavigne_.

The words danced dizzily in Trixie's head. After that pronouncement, he had taken Becky to another part of the room and was talking softly to her. It was quite eerie, lying helplessly in bed, listening to him talk to a doll, and pause as if he was listening to her reply.

She had heard of Hunter Lavigne. What person hadn't? The eccentric billionaire genius and philanthropist, rarely photographed but widely respected. God, it was the perfect cover. Who would suspect a man revered by so many to be a serial killer?

What had Will said? If only she could remember. She cast her mind back to the file she skimmed at Locard, trying to picture the contents in the same way she tried to memorize crime scenes. Just for a moment, she thought back to the challenge she issued to Jim shortly after they met. He couldn't describe what his mother was wearing at all. Honey showed him up by describing the outfit right down to Maddie's shoes and earrings. Her lips curved up in a gentle smile as she remembered the challenge Jim issued back, and the inability of Schoolgirl Shamuses, Incorporated to describe a car. She certainly learned a lesson that day!

Yes. _There it was_. Will had said that the perpetrator was decompensating. His mask of sanity was slipping. He couldn't hazard a guess as to what had happened to cause such a drastic change, but Trixie could.

Becky was falling apart. _Literally_. Most of her head was bald, with only a few golden curls still attached. The fabric of her body was brittle; Trixie had seen the same brittleness in the old dresses in the trunks she, Honey and Diana had investigated in Mrs. Vanderpoel's attic. The fabric would soon be crumbling.

One of Becky's legs was haphazardly sewn on. _She's dying_. _In his mind, Becky is dying_. And he thinks somehow, somehow she and Becky were interchangeable.

It all sounded too crazy. A single tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. _Jim must be out of his mind with worry_. How could they put this all together, when only she had all the pieces?

She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, and made a vow.

_She'd kill him if she had to_. She didn't know how, she didn't know with what, but if it came down to survival, she would return to Jim by fair means or foul.

With her resolution firmly in place, Trixie began to plot her escape.

A/N: My undying gratitude to my ever-vigilant editors, Mylee, Cindy, Jo and Jenny!

In the next few weeks I am going to be switching over my website to an easier method of posting stories, which is why the Smushsisters are publishing my latest updates. Unfortunately, the links will be kind of wonky until that is complete. I beg your patience while this occurs.

Kisses and hugs to Jo and Jenny. Jo is practically designing all the pages herself and Jenny is providing valuable feedback and assistance while we plot the new look.


	38. Tabloid Trix Chapter 37

Tabloid Trix Chapter 37

**At the girls' apartment**…

Honey Wheeler had closeted herself in her bedroom just for a while. Everything right now seemed so out of control, so horrible that she needed to get away for a little bit. It was selfish of her, she knew. Her boyfriend, Trixie's brother Mart, her own brother Jim and Trixie's parents all needed comforting.

She couldn't find it in herself to comfort anyone anymore when all she wanted to do was to find some corner, curl up in a little ball and weep until she fell asleep. She didn't want to wake up until she felt her sister-in-law's hands shaking her awake and saw her sunny smile and her voice urging her to get up and have a new adventure.

She never even heard the soft knock on the door. Brian poked his head in, watched her for a moment. She was so still, sitting on her bed like a marble statue; the healing tears not allowed to fall.

His heart constricted in his chest. He knew about her, about her early years, how she never had anyone to turn to so she turned inward. Trixie did so much to bring her out into the open and now there was the possibility well, he wouldn't even _think_ about the possibilities. The only possibility he could entertain was that Trixie would come home soon. For now, he had to put aside his own grief and tend to hers.

"Honey? Is it okay if I come in and talk to you for a while?" The question was rhetorical. Even if she said no there was no way he was going to leave her alone. He settled next to her on the bed, his strong capable arm snaking around her shoulders and pulling her to him.

"Where is she, Brian? She's smart. She's brilliant. Everybody at Locard thinks so. But you and I, we know so. But she never came up against anybody like this. Never by herself. Never somebody who is out to get her, just her. We all had bodyguards," she said bitterly, "All of us rich kids. Trixie was supposed to be safe. Safe!"

"If Paul Trent wasn't already dead, I'd go over there and kill him with my bare hands. It wasn't you or me or lack of bodyguards. It was _Trent_. He put her in danger. We never asked for this, Honey. It was thrust upon us. You know the kinda wackos that are out there. This guy probably saw Trixie's picture on that rag and decided to stalk her. It could just have easily been you or Diana."

"She's my best friend, Brian. More than my best friend," Honey said brokenly. She leaned into his strong chest and just let go.

As he held her tightly and let her sob against his chest, he laid his head on top of hers and let his own tears fall. Trixie may be Honey's best friend, but she was his _sister_.

And he was terrified he'd never see her again.

**Back at Jim and Trixie's…**

Both Jim and Aidan was staring at Jody or Lissa or whatever the hell she was calling herself like she had two heads. It was the reaction she most feared. They thought she was crazy.

"Okay. You're standing here telling us that a man known for his philanthropic activities is a serial killer. And you're his dead sister, returned from the grave. I have one question for you. Do you know the difference between reading fan fiction and reality?" Jim was exasperated. He had really hoped whatever knowledge this woman had would help him find his wife. Instead, she was giving them a tall tale ripped straight out of the latest pot – boiler.

She began to speak very rapidly. "This is just the reaction I would've gotten from Interpol had I told them. You're talking about a man who may have killed dozens of women. How could one man do that across continents, across oceans, through years? I'll tell you how. _Money_. Money buys silence. Money buys little hidey holes he could stash his victims in. I can tell you this: in every city that a victim was found in, one of my brother's holding companies owned property. It may not have been the property or the area where the victim was found in, but there was some kind of real property there that was owned. Now okay one time, two times it may be coincidence. _But every single time?_ Every single time, every single victim was dressed up to look exactly like Rebecca Jonsson and exactly like your wife." She pointed an accusing finger at Jim. "And if we don't get there, if we don't figure out where he has Trixie stashed, when she doesn't mind meld with Becky or whatever he expects, she's going to end up like the rest of them. Maybe even worse. He's cutting now. _Cutting_."

The color drained out of Aidan's face. "What do you mean, cutting?" This was just too much for him to wrap his brain around.

Jody sat down, placing her face in her hands and trying to compose herself. When she did begin to speak again, her voice was hoarse, tired and tight. "The last few victims have been cut open. Just like Paul Trent. While they were still alive. He's getting worse. He's not only killing the victims who _can't _become Becky now, he's seeking out other victims to kill for _fun_. Or what he considers fun."

_What would his detective do?_ What would Trixie do? Jim stared at the woman, her face ghost white, her eyes beseeching. She'd take a leap of faith, that's what she'd do. That's what she _always_ did, and that's what he was going to do now.

"All right, Lissa or Jody or whatever you want to call yourself. What do we have to do now?" His hands were clenched into fists of rage as he awaited her answer.

**5 Beekman…**

She was still weak, but she wasn't quite as dizzy as she had been before. Whatever drug he gave her was wearing off. He had taken that awful looking doll and left the room, returning to bring her tray with a bottle of water on it that was open, and some sort of sandwich.

Her lips were dry, really dry, and she was actually dying of thirst. As she looked at the attractive sandwich, her stomach let out a big rumble. She couldn't even remember the last time she ate, because she didn't know how long she had been held captive.

Throwing back the pretty white quilt, she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. Thank God, the room didn't spin like before. When she sat up, she became aware of another urgent need and parted the filmy curtains that surrounded that fabulous bed.

The room actually was very pretty, although she hated to admit it. Heavy curtains hid the windows and any hope she had of determining what time of day it was. She inched over, as quietly as possible, to the edge of the mattress and placed her stocking feet on the floor. There were several doors in the room and she hoped one would lead to a bathroom.

Offering up a quick prayer, she leaned heavily against the mattress as she attempted to stand. For one sickening second, the whole room revolved around her and then everything righted itself. Keeping one hand on the edge of the mattress she slowly shuffled along the side of the bed until she reached one of the posts.

Wrapping her arms around it, winded as if she had run a mile, she held onto it for a minute and tried to get her bearings. He definitely wasn't in the room, but he was somewhere close. She could hear a sort of echo of his voice; again, there were pauses in the conversation as if he was listening to someone else speak.

Taking a deep breath, she slid on her stocking feet over to the first door. Leaning her head up against it, she could hear his voice a little more clearly here. This was obviously the exit. She grasped the doorknob and gave it a slight turn. Locked. Biting her lip in frustration, holding onto the wall, she went to try the next door.

And really, really wished she hadn't. There was a walk-in closet, obviously climate controlled as the whoosh of cold air chilled her as it made its escape. On one side of the closet was a rod with dozens of replicas of the outfit that she had on. Shoes were stacked neatly underneath.

But it was the shelving in the back that caused the bile to rise in her throat and made her shut her eyes, even if only for a moment.

There they were. More jars than she cared to count and all containing one grisly souvenir.

A pair of human eyeballs, optic nerves fluttering in the clear liquid in the jar like so many butterfly wings, sightlessly floated in each jar.

And the last one was labeled _Paul Trent_.

**Back at the apartment building…**

The two detectives were briefing the Locard folks regarding the findings in the alleyway in Alphabet City. While everyone breathed a sigh of relief that Trixie was not found in the car, it ratcheted up the anxiety level.

"I don't think he left us too much to work with, Dr. Breitling. Your cabdriver was pretty drugged out of his mind. About the only thing he could remember was picking up the fare near the Society's brownstone. He said the man wanted to go to a not so nice area of the South Bronx. Gave him a cock and bull story about his company buying the building or something there." Frustration rang through Dhannie's voice.

"Your girl was able to slip off her rings. She secreted them in the seam in the backseat of the taxi. She's good. She had no way of knowing if he was going to dump her laptop and purse. That definitively proves she was in that taxi." Levi couldn't believe it. Here he was with the most exalted members of the Locard Society, and they couldn't give them more than the most basic information.

Anna was as pale as a ghost. It was one thing to work on crimes that already occurred, and to merely assist police departments or others in collating evidence. It was quite another to have a valued friend and coworker as a possible victim. The strain was also showing in both Will's and Stephen's faces.

Will scrubbed at his tired face. He motioned for the two detectives to join them in the apartment that belonged to the men. "I've been so focused on Trixie I need to ask you a couple of questions. The man that was killed. The one that had Trixie's pictures on the wall in his apartment. How was he really killed?"

Dhannie and Lee exchanged a glance. The police had not released everything to the press, a usual practice in homicide cases. That way, they can narrow the search down to the killer that knew the details of the crime and exclude the chronic confessors and other crazies.

"You understand, Dr. Breitling, this part of the investigation has not been released." Will nodded his head in agreement. He was well-versed in police procedure. Dhannie continued, "The public believes that the vic was shot or strangled. He wasn't."

"I'll tell you," Stephen said. "He was cut open while still alive. And as a souvenir, the perpetrator expertly removed his eyeballs."

Dhannie and Lee both widened their eyes. Will went on, taking the lead from Stephen. "I believe we know who took Trixie, and why. The ironic thing was, she's the one who told us."

**Jim and Trixie's apartment…**

"We need to go tell the detectives and Locard about your theory," Aidan was saying to Jody.

"No. It's going to take too long. If you greeted my explanation with skepticism what do you think they're going to do?I have no doubt my next stop would be Bellevue. We need, we need to look at any acquisitions that my brother's company may have made in Manhattan in the last year to six months. It takes time to get permits for building and remodeling, especially in Manhattan with all the EPA and city statutes. I think he would take her to an empty building where he'd have no chance of being seen."

"Yup, I agree, but don't you think the police can search for that quicker than we can?" The impatience was riding Jim hard. Everything was _talk talk talk talk _and no action.

"Jim, even if they did believe me, they need to get search warrants and all of that stuff. We need to act and we need to act now." The adrenaline was rushing through Jody's body, had nowhere to go except in the frantic pacing she was doing.

"I think that property purchases are public record." Aidan thought back to when his parents purchased the house in Sleepyside. He remembered being a little embarrassed that their names and the purchase price were published in the _Sleepyside Sun_. He almost felt a little violated by it.

"Yeah, and you know how current the city is with postings. We'll be lucky if he gets posted by next century." Jim ran a restless hand through his red hair.

"I have an idea," Aidan said. "It's a long shot but I think we should try it." He took a deep breath, expelled it and closed his eyes. "I can try hacking into the mainframe of your brother's company." His cheeks reddened. "I'm majoring in computer science. I do a little hacking on the side for fun. Nothing malicious," he hastened to add. "But I am pretty good at it."

Jim grabbed the Locard computer that Will had left behind. "Here. Put your fingers where your mouth is." He handed it to Aidan. "We're gonna need privacy here." He stepped over to the open door to their apartment and shut it.

No one in the hallway or the other two apartments noticed or heard the snick as Jim locked them in and Aidan's swift fingers began dancing over the keyboard.

**5** **Beekman…**

Trixie stumbled out of the closet, sick to her stomach. He killed Paul Trent. He killed Paul Trent and removed his eyeballs. Why? How did Paul Trent and Hunter Lavigne know each other? Her body reminded her of her other urgent need, and she made her slow way to the third and last door.

It was the bathroom. It was obvious it was in some sort of remodeling stage, but there was a functioning toilet and a small pedestal sink. Trixie gratefully used the facilities, silently thanking whoever invented the toilet. Now her only prayer was that the sink actually functioned also.

For once, the fates were on her side. The sink sputtered and spit, rusty water running out of the battered chrome faucet. She let it run until it came out fairly clear and washed her hands. She let it run a bit more, cupped her hands underneath and drank enough to slake her immediate thirst. She didn't want to drink too much, because she had no idea what he drugged her with, and if eating or drinking would cause her to vomit.

She searched the bathroom looking for a possible weapon, but there was nothing. Nothing unless she wanted to beat him to death with a roll of Angel Soft. She gave a slightly hysterical giggle and realized she had to keep her wits about her. Now was not the time to lose it. There'd be plenty of time for that afterwards.

Trixie felt stronger, and made her way to one of the windows. Pulling back the heavy velvet curtain, she glanced outside. The sun was high in the sky. It should be either morning or midmorning. It was obvious she was too high up to climb down safely. There was that and the fact that each of the windows that she checked had heavy iron bars to prevent her escape.

A quick search of the rest of the room did not reveal any other implements she might be able to fashion into a crude weapon. Listening carefully, hoping he didn't return soon, she took the bottle of water and dumped it into the sink. She rinsed it out several times and hoped she washed out whatever drug he had poured in there. She took the sandwich, tore it into tiny pieces, and placed it in the toilet. She placed a layer of the toilet tissue on top to ensure everything flushed and pulled the handle.

She exited the bathroom and leaned against the outside door, hearing his steps echoing in the empty hallway outside. She ran to the bed, situating herself back on the pillows and placing the half empty bottle of water and empty foam tray that the sandwich was in on the nightstand.

Her heart began a slow, painful thud against her ribs. She was going to be locked in a room with an obviously insane killer who thought some freaky doll talked to him. She had no other weapon to use against him other than her wits.

Now wasn't that a pisser?

Rebecca Jonsson Lavigne was not very happy. This one, this current almost-Becky that he brought to her was the closest one yet. She needed no modifications, but it still wasn't happening like he promised her.

He gently took her from the bed when it appeared almost – Becky was sleeping, down the hall and into a room that was still in some stage of decay. She held her tongue until he settled in an old recliner that sent up a cloud of dust when he sat on it and pulled her into his lap.

"It's not happening. You promised me this time. You promised this would be the last. You promised this one would work. I sat next to her all afternoon and absolutely nothing happened. Other that her snoring." As she spoke, her voice got higher and higher into that screeching whine he hated the most.

For a single, solitary moment, he wondered just what his life would be like if he simply terminated her now.

"She's the best one yet, Becky. You have to have patience. Don't forget, she's very petite and I gave her a large dose of the drug. I'm sure the smaller doses in her food and water will make her more amenable but not so drowsy." Hunter tried to soothe her.

"Have patience! Have patience! You're always telling me to have patience. But you are not the one falling apart. You're not the one that was thrown on some fire like a sacrifice to a pagan God. You're not the one with scars. I used to be beautiful and your family did this to me."

He ran a carefully manicured finger along the good side of her face. Her blue eye stared at him, bright and unblinking. The color of it, the shininess, it never dulled. It always saw straight through to his soul. "You're still beautiful to me, Becky. I promised you would live and you will."

He would see to it. She would live and breathe and he would take such good care of her. She would take such good care of him. Almost – Becky has such pretty, smooth skin. And once Becky made the transition, she would be much easier to handle. He was sure that she would want to join him with his little experiments on the things. He'd make sure she loved the blood as much as he did.

And he supposed in the fullness of time, almost – Becky would bear their child. Yes. A new him. Somebody to carry on the family tradition.

The very thought of it made him aroused.

**Back in the boys' apartment…**

"How did you know that? How did you know he took Paul Trent's eyes? How did you know the perp cut him?" Unless the dudes from Locard had some kind of pipeline into active investigations, there was no way they could know this.

Will took off his glasses, rubbed his weary eyes and carefully placed his glasses back in their proper place on his face. "There is a serial killer who was crisscrossed the United States, Canada, and I can't tell you how many foreign countries. He…he chooses his victims very carefully. They have all been petite women, all Caucasian. They are often described as being busty. His normal method of operation is to kidnap one of these women, keep her for a period of time and then dispose of her by carbon monoxide poisoning."

"How does that fit in with our perp? Our vic was a male and he certainly wasn't gassed to death. It's a completely different crime," Lee insisted. Were these guys from Locard losing it?

Stephen raised a finger. "There's more. He has several telling signatures to his crimes. His victims were all found with their heads shaved and cheap blonde wigs put on them. They were all dressed in some sort of a strange milkmaid outfit. And their eyes were removed, antemortem, and replaced with doll's eyes."

"Before we got the call that Trixie had been taken, I was up in Canada consulting on a case. It appears that our killer was spending some time in Montréal. He was using an island to dispose of his current victims. Some of the victims had their eyes replaced with doll eyes. Some of the victims were simply, shall we say sliced and diced. It appears that the UNSUB that the FBI refers to as the Dollmaker has changed his modus operandi. He's no longer giving his victims a merciful death. No, he cuts them just as your Paul Trent was. The worst part of it is that they were additional victims, ones where he took the eyes but did not replace them. He's beginning to develop a taste for blood. He is devolving and I am afraid that the bloodlust will become his paramount motivating force. He took Trixie because she looks like some doll from long ago that apparently his psychosis is centered upon. More than likely, he saw her on the cover of that stupid magazine. Once he did that, once he saw her he had to come here to get her. He had to. He had no choice in the matter." Will was tired, so tired.

The four men and one woman stood there silently. They may have had most of the pieces of the puzzle but they still didn't have the most important ones: who was the Dollmaker, and where did he take Trixie?

**5 Beekman…**

She kept her eyes closed as she felt the breeze when the curtains parted. The pillow next to her was fluffed, and something placed upon it. _Probably that damn doll_.

It was all she could do to keep still, and keep breathing shallowly. She peeked out of slitted eyes, and watched through the curtains as he walked around the bed and came to her side. The cool breeze wafted over her face again, and he bent down staring at her with those disturbing eyes.

"Sleep my dear. It's the best thing for you right now. When you awaken, the transformation will begin. You're so beautiful." He ran his fingers through her curls. "Your hair is like spun gold. You will be a fitting partner for me, almost – Becky."

His cold fingers traveled along her jaw, caressing. He whispered again, _sleep_, and she felt his hot breath on her cheek before his lips brushed hers.

It was only when he closed the curtain that she allowed a single tear to slide silently down the side of her face. She didn't want her last memory on Earth to be the touch of his lips on hers.

The scream was building up inside her, much as it did that horrible day so long ago in a rundown little restaurant where she had gone to exchange an ugly looking idol for money to buy a station wagon for crippled children. It was only by sheer force of will that she allowed her mind and not her mouth to cry at the same word she cried out that day. "_Jim! Jim! Jim!_"

Only this time he wasn't waiting to bust in the door with cops, her brother and Dan. This time, she really was out there on her own.

A/N: Many thanks to my terrific editors, Mylee, Cindy, Jo and Jenny. They catch all bad things (except for Hunter!).

In the next few weeks I am going to be switching over my website to an easier method of posting stories, which is why the Smushsisters are publishing my latest updates. Unfortunately, the links will be kind of wonky until that is complete. I beg your patience while this occurs.

Kisses and hugs to Jo and Jenny. Jo is practically designing all the pages herself and Jenny is providing valuable feedback and assistance while we plot the new look.

_Bellevue _is a famous facility in Manhattan where are the NYPD bring all the folks that are slightly out of touch with reality.

Reference to the _ugly little idol_ is of course, from _The Mystery of the Blinking Eye. _


	39. Tabloid Trix Chapter 38

Tabloid Trix Chapter 38

A large group of people were gathered inside the spacious apartment that had been transformed for the girls. Looking around, Levi Halpern couldn't help but be affected by the various stages of either grief or shock on everyone's face. It was always the same, and it always got him.

They had decided to reveal their suspicions to Trixie's friends and family, on the chance that one of them may have noticed something strange. Oftentimes in police work, it was just somebody making an offhand remark about something they saw that changed the course of an investigation. It was entirely possible that one of them had seen the perpetrator and didn't realize it. He must've stalked Trixie for a while. Somebody, somewhere must have seen _something_.

He looked at the group of people, tear stains evident on many faces. Trixie's parents looked like they aged ten years overnight. Even the bodyguards were a pasty gray. He didn't doubt how they felt.

The only one that was missing was Jim Frayne, Trixie's husband, who had barricaded himself in his apartment. When Anna knocked on his door to ask him to join them, his muffled, broken voice merely relayed information that he wanted to be left alone at this time. Whatever they said right now would not bring Trixie back.

He deferred to Dr. Breitling, because sometimes as a police officer he'd enough. He had enough of delivering body blows to grieving people. And that's exactly what they were going to do. It wasn't just some random abduction of a rich man's wife. She was targeted by a prolific serial killer because she looked like his fantasy. _A freaking doll._

A very successful serial killer who had not been caught, had not even left the slightest clue to assist the many law enforcement agencies that were intent on apprehending him. God, the whole thing just sounded so freaking _crazy_.

As Will Breitling began to weave the tale of the Dollmaker, Levi began to do a slow burn. This pretty little girl, someone who had a genius for solving mysteries, was now the biggest mystery herself. _All because some stupid reporter had an agenda_.

There was a piece of the puzzle that he was missing, that they were all missing and if they could just put that piece together, he was certain they would be able to find Trixie. As Will's voice droned on in the background, Lee began mentally piecing the puzzle together again.

_If only._

**Jim and Trixie's apartment…**

Aidan was beginning to sweat. Hunter Lavigne had some top notch security. It was taking him a little more time than he had expected to hack into their main computer system. It didn't help that Jim was pacing back-and-forth and stopping to give him a hard stare every now and then.

_He had to concentrate_. He had to block everything out except the algorithms and sequences he knew in his sleep. The numbers flashed before his eyes, and he caught it.

The chink in the armor.

With practiced fingers, he exploited that chink until he did it. He was _in_. Now all he had to do was go through the billions of bytes of data and find the information that was stored regarding real estate transactions. _Sure_ it was easy. Just like finding a needle in a haystack.

**Montréal Canada…Livvy's Hospital Room…**

She remembered something. When the call came into Inspector Loriot's office, he grabbed a portable recorder and got there as fast as it was possible to go.

She had regained color, his Livvy, and she was set to be discharged soon, maybe even today. The pretty girl sitting up on the bed bore very little resemblance to the almost-dead woman he pulled from the cold waters of the St. Lawrence River. She had a pretty scarf wrapped around her head, the head that bastard had shaved in order to put that cheap yellow wig on it. She looked up when he entered the room, and a big smile lit her features.

"How you feeling, Ms. Dufresne?" He answered her greeting with a large smile of his own.

"Much better thank you, Inspector. Everyone here has been so nice to me." She blushed shyly.

"You've been through a lot. You are one very lucky young woman." He patted her cool hand. "I received a message that you have remembered something about…about what happened to you."

She licked her lips. "The psychologist here says I may never remember everything. I do know my name is Olivia Dufresne and not Becky. I'm Livvy, not Becky," she repeated fiercely. _"Not Becky."_

"Do you remember anything that happened to you inside that house, or who may have done this to you? I am going to record this, Livvy, with your permission." He showed her the small tape recorder.

"Okay. I don't mind. I don't remember anything in the house or how I got down to the river. I don't even really remember that much beforehand. But I do remember I went on a picnic, a…picnic at night. With a man."

Loriot tried to tamp down on his rising excitement. If she could identify the owner of the fingerprints they pulled from the house, it would be a great leap forward in the investigation. "Do you remember who you went on the picnic with?"

"Yes. It was a man I met at a coffee shop. I…think I had some sort of accident with my tea and he bought me a new one or gave me his. We hit it off and we made a date. We…we went to some old movie. I remember because I had to research the movies on the Internet 'cause I'm not an old movie buff. He was an American. He said his name was Jordan Jonsson." A light sheen of perspiration was collecting on her forehead as she tried to remember. It was so _very_ frustrating.

Jordan Jonsson. American. As soon as the interview was finished he needed to get in touch with the FBI. He had the prints, and now they could search AFIS or any of the other various databases the States had. "You did well, Livvy. Real well. Do you think you could identify him?"

"I think I can. Yes, I'm pretty sure I can. I remember being excited to go on the picnic, and after that everything else blurs." Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry I can't remember more. I'm so sorry."

Loriot couldn't bear to see the girl cry. He gently enfolded her in an embrace, awkwardly patting her back. "There's nothing for you to be sorry about Livvy. _Nothing_. You gave us some good information to work with here. We were looking for a Canadian and now we can expand the search for an American. You're alive Livvy, and that's all that counts."

"I'm afraid to go home, Inspector. I'm afraid he might come for me there. I saw the newspaper; you suspect him of killing all those girls on the island. And I might've been one of them. You know, the only living witness." Her eyes were wide and frightened.

"Livvy, we have reason to believe, good reason, that he has left Montréal. We think he left in a hurry and didn't bother to verify that you were, in fact, dead. We're not sure whether he caught wind of the environmental cleanup on the island and made a hasty exit, or something else might've happened. In any case he left in a hurry." He scrubbed his face with his hands. "Let me make a couple of phone calls. I'll get you to a safe house. I promise he won't get you, Livvy."

They sat there for a moment, and she leaned her head against his chest taking comfort, just listening to the beat of his heart.

She was _alive_.

**Jim and Trixie's apartment…**

"I'm in." The two words were as sharp as a gunshot in the silent room. "I have no idea where to look." There were holding companies and subsidiaries and subsidiaries of subsidiaries; he had no idea how to navigate the maze of information in the mainframe.

"I think the best way to find out if he bought any real estate in New York City is to look for a large capital expenditure. Hunter doesn't like to mortgage anything; when he buys something he buys it outright. If he bought a building in the city, it's going to be a huge expense." Jody clasped her hands together.

Aidan's fingers tapped madly on the keyboard. God, he was so glad he wasn't going to go into the corporate world, with its labyrinthine maze of generally accepted accounting principles. Forensic accounting was _not _going to be his forte.

And suddenly, there it was, right in front of him. _A hundred million dollars_. He couldn't even conceive of that much money in his wildest dreams. RJL, Inc. had purchased an office building on 5 Beekman Street about eight months ago. Could he possibly have taken Trixie there? It didn't seem likely that he would bring her to an occupied office building. Too many witnesses.

Opening another window, he typed the address and was brought to a website. "Oh my _God_."

Jim was at his side in a second. "What, oh my God? What did you find, Aidan?" He turned the laptop so that all three of them could view the elegant building.

"Look at this. This is the building his corporation bought last year in Manhattan. 5 Beekman. It's the rarest thing in Manhattan; an abandoned building." He scrolled down through the various pictures of the gorgeous, neglected building. "Geez. This is a block from City Hall. Your brother has _some_ cojones."

Jody pointed a shaking finger at the screen. "_That's it_. That's where he has her. It's nearly a block long and all the storefronts are boarded up." She looked into Jim's dark green eyes. "She could scream there and nobody would hear her."

"We need to get out of here. _Now_." Jim grabbed his cell. "You in, Aidan?"

The adrenaline was coursing through his veins, and Aidan didn't stop to think. "Damn straight."

"How can we get out of here without being seen? They have this floor locked down pretty tight." Jody watched as Jim slipped some objects into a backpack, then cautiously opened the door and peered out. Someone had knocked earlier, and they all ignored it. "Hallway is deserted."

"If we try to take the elevator, there's a chance that someone could come out of one of the other apartments. We'll take the stairs. Once we open the door and exit, we'll be locked out. Anyone up for a 13 story hike?" Jim's face was grim. "Once we're downstairs, we'll take the delivery entrance into the alleyway." He walked to the closet, pulled out a couple of hoodies and tossed one at Aidan. "Try not to look like yourself," he joked feebly.

One by one they slipped out of the apartment and through the reinforced door leading to the stairs. As the door snicked shut behind them, they began their silent descent to the street.

Upstairs, the door to the apartment remained slightly ajar, and the disturbing images of the crumbling palace remained locked on the laptop screen.

**5 Beekman…**

As soon as she heard the door to the outside close, Trixie's eyes popped open. She pushed herself up in bed and scrubbed mightily at her lips. Ever since he had touched her, she felt like they were little tiny bugs crawling all over her skin and she wanted nothing more than to get into the hottest shower that her skin could stand and wash away the memory of his lips and fingers on her.

She took another sip of water that she had so carefully replaced in the plastic bottle. She was getting stronger. Her mind was clearing, and she didn't feel quite so dizzy and weak. Trixie slipped out of bed again, and silently padded over to the door, pressing her ear against it. She could hear him talking, faintly in the distance, and it sounded like he was conducting business.

_Great._ A wacko who had enough sense to continue to run his many and varied business interests. It's true what they said. She had read a paper someone wrote that said psychopaths can be very successful in business, because really they only cared about the bottom line. Because the bottom line had only to do with themselves.

She walked back to the bed and parted the curtains on the side where he had placed Becky. She pulled the pretty white quilt off of the doll, and began to examine her. Her whole left side was pretty burned, the face twisted and black. One thing she did notice was that the doll was no longer dressed in the apron and skirt set. Instead, it was wearing a white satin négligée that was rapidly turning gray where it was rubbing up against the burned part. As she touched the doll's head, yellow strands of hair disconnected in a clump on the pillow.

She gently touched the doll's face, and then proceeded down gently probing it to ascertain if there was any portion that she could use to defend herself. While the arms, body and legs did have bendable wire, she couldn't take the chance of ripping open the doll and removing it. She carefully lifted the hem of the négligée and put her hand over her mouth as she felt the meager contents of her stomach rise in her throat.

The soft, crumbling cotton body was yellowing with old semen stains.

She yanked down the hem and sat down quickly, swallowing with great difficulty. It was one thing to know that he had been actively looking for a living person who resembled Becky. It was quite another to realize that he had been having _sex_ with an inanimate object.

She turned her troubled blue eyes to the disfigured doll again. She may not have found a knife or gun or anything else to be used in her own defense. At that moment, she realized she did have one thing and one thing only that she could use against him.

_Becky._

**The Bob-Whites' apartment building…**

The trio slipped out of the tradesmen's entrance, into the alleyway and onto the street. The circus that had been stationed in the front of the building had finally dissipated. There was one lone cop car, another car which apparently belonged to the detectives, and that was it. The police had obviously dispersed the groupies that had been a constant presence on the other side of the street.

Jim looked up and down the block and noted the van from_ In the Know_. He pointed it out to his companions, and they swiftly and silently turned in the opposite direction. It would have been faster had they asked whatever doorman with on duty to call a cab, but they didn't want to deal with a lot of questions.

For once luck was with them. They made it to the corner, by the deli where Honey and Aidan had a sandwich not so long ago, but for some reason it seemed like years. Jim gave a piercing whistle, and the yellow taxi pulled over.

As the three of them piled into the back, his hoarse, tight voice said to the driver, "5 Beekman Street."

**The 14****th**** Floor…**

"She identified her date as Jordan Jonsson, an American. When we ran the fingerprints found at the scene, they did come back as Jordan Jonsson." Jean-Paul Loriot's voice sounded tired and strained on the other end of Will's cell phone.

"So what's the rub? There's something else in your voice." Will had the phone on speaker in one of the unused bedrooms.

"Jonsson's fingerprints were in the database in conjunction with his driver's license. There's also a missing persons report filed on him. He dropped totally out of sight two years ago. We pulled his photo from his driver's license and put it in a photo lineup for Livvy. She failed to identify him. She said all the men in the photo lineup had blonde hair, and the Jordan Jonsson she knew was dark." Loriot scrubbed at his face. The promising lead they had had just gone nowhere.

"All right. We can extrapolate some conclusions from that. We can now confirm that Jordan Jonsson is not his real name. He's obviously savvy with forensic investigation techniques if he was able to plant the real Jordan Jonsson's fingerprints at the crime scene. I suspect that Mr. Jonsson is probably lying in a shallow grave somewhere." He sighed. "_He_ probably has a number of identities he can assume at a moment's notice. I think he's getting sloppy with this one. He didn't stop to check if Livvy was actually dead, and he didn't bother to match his appearance to the driver's license photo. He's arrogant. And he's wealthy."

"What makes you say that?"

Anna decided to respond. "He moves between countries with impunity. He doesn't think he's going to be caught. He has got to have money to do all that."

"Livvy was so excited that she was able to provide some information. I know it's been a big letdown to her that she couldn't identify him in the photo lineup." Loriot was pressing his eyes with his thumbs.

"Her memories may be hazy, but she knew enough that he was not in the photo lineup. Have her work with the police artist. You told me that she said she went to a coffee shop and met him and went to a movie. See if they still have the security tapes."

**5 Beekman…**

The whole building was dark. The taxi driver left them off in front, shaking his head. He'd been driving in Manhattan for 20 years and he never had a fare to this big building. The two men were dressed in hoodies and looking grim, and the lady who was with them was looking just as serious. He just hoped they weren't going to get into trouble.

Storefront after storefront was abandoned, boarded up. Rusting scaffolding ran along its sidewalk, a tribute to a former owner or owners who were trying to restore the building and apparently ran out of money or interest.

The lobby doors were not the elegant revolving doors that most office buildings had in New York City today. They were designed to be opened by a doorman in a smart uniform who tipped his hat, greeted you by your name and wished you a good day.

Jim looked up at the 10 story building with the towers on either end; the castle in which his princess was being held prisoner. He was _sure_ of it. Trixie was in there, and he was going to make damn sure they got there and he brought her home.

_Alive._

A/N: My little story would not be the same without the expert guidance of my editors, Mylee, Cindy, Jo and Jenny. Thank you ladies!

As stated in the prior chapter, in the next few weeks I am going to be switching over my website to an easier method of posting stories, which is why the Smushsisters are publishing my latest updates. Unfortunately, the links will be kind of wonky until that is complete. I beg your patience while this occurs.

Kisses and hugs to Jo and Jenny. Jo is practically designing all the pages herself and Jenny is providing valuable feedback and assistance while we plot the new look.


	40. Tabloid Trix Chapter 39

Tabloid Trix Chapter 39

_**5 Beekman St.… Outside…**_

Jim, Aidan and Jody walked the length of the building. Most of the storefronts were boarded up tightly, thwarting any attempt to burrow inside. Surprisingly, the only portion of the façade that wasn't tightly boarded up were the lobby doors. Brown paper covered the windows, but there were no boards across them.

"It looks like our best way to get in there would be to break through these doors," Jim whispered. He briefly trained his flashlight on the area. "I'm sure he must have brought Trixie in through the back; he wouldn't risk being seen from the street. He's probably got the service entrance well-guarded."

"If he has the service entrance in the rear alarmed, he probably has this front entrance alarmed too," Aidan argued.

"Yeah, but I think it's probably an internal alarm right now. He's not gonna risk having an alarm that goes directly to his monitoring company. If the police came to check the alarm out, they'd check every floor and they would find Trixie. He can't risk that." Jim was staring at the doors that he knew, just _knew_, were keeping him from Trixie.

"So we're going to break in here, let a serial killer know that we're breaking in. How do we know he won't harm Trixie?" Aidan knew somebody had to be the voice of reason here. Jim's wife may be in there, and he could practically see the adrenaline rushing through Jim's veins. Jody had her own agenda. "And what if she's _not_ in there? What if we break in and the alarm calls the the monitoring company and the police? We are all gonna get arrested for breaking and entering." He could just see making the phone call to his mother and father now.

"She's in there. I _know_ it. There are not that many abandoned buildings in Manhattan, Aidan. He couldn't risk taking her far. It's too crowded here, too congested." Jody looked up at the imposing building. "He's not going to harm her right now because he thinks she is the culmination of all his work. He thinks she's _Becky_, and he is not going to give Becky up. I know my brother. And I know his obsession with that damn doll."

"So don't tell me you have a credit card to jimmy the door open," Aidan snarked. "It's gonna take a lot more than watching some stuff on television to break into this place."

"Stand in front of me," Jim demanded as he squatted and opened the backpack. He put the flashlight between his teeth and shined it inside. After rummaging around for a bit, he came up with what he was looking for. "When we were younger, Trixie used to get into all these really horrendous situations. She and my sister nearly died in a car that was driven into the Hudson River and started sinking. I made sure that all of us always have several of these little gadgets," Jim explained, holding up a LifeHammer. "You tap this side on the windshield of a car or a window and it shatters it instantly. The other side is a seatbelt cutter."

"Why on earth would you have one of those in your _house_?" Aidan asked. "It's not like the apartment house is in danger of sinking into the Hudson River."

"Hey, the windows are sealed and even though we are up on the 14th floor, we may have to break open the windows and escape someday. Then _this_ little thing will come in mighty handy. Just keep standing in front of me. If you see any police cars or anything suspicious just let me know."

Aidan and Jody covered Jim as he crouched down and swung the escape hammer against the lobby door. The resulting crack of the glass was muffled by the cacophony of noise that was New York City day or night. He pulled out the gloves he had stowed in his backpack and began removing the remaining glass and the brown paper on the bottom glass panel of the lobby door.

Another minute or so, and they would be in. His heart was pounding against his chest. She _had_ to be here. _She had to_. If that bastard had harmed one hair on her curly head, he would rip him apart limb from limb.

Jody glanced over, watching Jim work. Her hand went to the waistband of her jeans and the little surprise she had there. She was going to end this today, with Hunter. It didn't matter if she was jailed for the rest of her life, because she would at last be free of him.

_That had been the worst prison of all._

**Jim and Trixie's apartment…**

The waiting was getting to _all_ of them. Why couldn't they put the pieces together? Locard was on it. The FBI was on it. NYPD's finest were on it. Yet all they had were a bunch of dead women, some tantalizing clues, a dead reporter and _no Trixie_.

Will Brietling sighed and reached for his computer. He'd review the files Trixie sent again, when he remembered he left it in her apartment. Come to think of it, Jim hadn't been around in ages. He knew the younger man was grieving and angry, but it wasn't healthy for him to hole up in their apartment, not when he had lots of friends and family to offer their support and love.

He motioned to Stephen and Anna, and they followed him into the hallway. "I left my computer at Trixie's, and her husband has been in there quite a while by himself," he was speaking as he walked.

He knocked on the partially ajar door, but no-one answered. Pushing it open, he called inside. "Jim? It's Will Brietling. I left my computer here."

_No response._

He tried again, a bit louder this time. "Jim? It's Will. Are you here?"

A wall of silence greeted them. Stephen crouched, pulling out his clutch piece that was strapped around his ankle. He gestured to the other two to stay back as he slipped into the apartment, creeping through the rooms searching for… _something_.

"He's not here, Will. Perhaps he went into the other apartment." Stephen shivered. The apartment was eerily quiet.

"I'll go check to see if he's in one of them," Anna said, and left to do just that.

"Here's my computer," Will said. He looked at it, puzzled. It was open. He never left it open, did he? Maybe he was so rattled about Trixie that he did. As he went to close it, the movement caused the screen saver to stop functioning. As it did, it brought up the information about 5 Beekman.

Now he knew that he _may_ have left his computer open, but he _definitely_ wasn't looking at an old abandoned building in Manhattan. He scrolled through the information and pictures quickly, along with a little blurb that RJL, Inc. had recently purchased the building with an eye towards renovation.

_Now what does that have to do with Trixie?_ Why would Jim be looking up old buildings? He minimized that screen only to note the screen behind it.

Somebody had hacked into the mainframe at RJL. There was a list of recent property purchases, as well as properties that were already in their possession. As Will scrolled through the lengthy list, he was conscious of a growing excitement.

_In almost every city where the Dollmaker had a victim, RJL owned property_. It wasn't the property where the victim was discovered, but they had properties nearby nonetheless. _Could it possibly be? _Could Jim have stumbled upon a connection between the corporation and the serial killer?

Anna came back into the room, perturbed. "Jim isn't in any of the other rooms. Neither is their friend Aidan from the third floor."

Will heard her vaguely, through the jumble of thoughts that were racing across his brain. "I… I _think_ Jim may have found a connection," he mumbled. With the intuitive leaps that he was known for, he called up the facial recognition program. He plugged in the best picture they had from their security cameras of the UNSUB that kidnapped Trixie, and one of the rare photos of Hunter Lavigne. It was a longshot at best, but why not start at the top and work down?

A few minutes later, the machine beeped out its response.

_100% match._

**5 Beekman… Inside…**

She was still so tired, and a little dizzy. She lay back down on the bed, the bridal bed that he had so carefully prepared for her. _No,_ she amended silently, _not for her but for Becky_. When the two became one.

Fat chance of _that_ happening.

She shifted her head slightly and peeked at the creepy doll. For a moment, she could just swear it was staring at her, the one good eye shining with malevolence. God, it was _eerie_. She gave a short giggle, almost hysterical in nature. All this time her parents, her in-laws, their friends and her husband were worried about her solving mysteries. About Honey and her getting into a situation they couldn't get out of.

Instead, this came _completely _out of the blue. It had nothing to do with her work at Locard; it had nothing to do with her detective-ing skills. It was because she looked like a stupid _doll_. How ironic was that? The girl that took all of her dolls and buried them in shallow graves in the Orchard, the girl that couldn't be bothered with them at _all_, was now the woman held captive because of her _resemblance_ to one.

_If I get out of this,_ Trixie thought, staring at Becky, _I'm gonna make sure that I have Jim buy every one of those ridiculous dolls and send them through a shredder, you bitch._

She desperately needed to sleep again, but was afraid to close her eyes. She needed to have her wits about her if Lavigne came back. Because there would be no way that he was going to take her; no way that he was going to put his lips on her again.

She was fighting to stay awake, but the bed was so comfortable and she was so very tired. She hoped he had a lot of business to take care of. As she was about to drift off, a sudden white light, blinding in its intensity, began to flash; so bright it penetrated her closed eyelids.

Trixie's eyes popped open. _Now what the hell was happening?_

_It was taking too long again_. He was trying to keep his mind on his various business ventures that needed his attention. But it was getting harder and harder for him to concentrate on such mundane tasks.

_But it had to be going better this time right?_ Becky wasn't complaining – in fact, she had been very silent. That was a good sign. He just wished the conversion would occur, and the next time he went into the room, into their marital bed, her soft and slender arms would circle around him and she would press her warm body to his.

_And then he would make her bleed_.

No. _No that wasn't right_. That was for the _others_. Not Becky. Not even when she became like the others. Like the things that he dropped off on the island. They were all warm and some of them were willing, willing to do anything he wanted them to do.

But what they all didn't understand was he didn't _want _them to do anything at all. He had the power. And oh, when his mind was so full of red, when copper smell surrounded him, washed over him like a cloak, only _then_ was he satisfied.

She had such pretty white skin, his almost-Becky. It would look so pretty if he decorated it. He had seen pictures of Indian brides, their hands and bodies decorated with henna in intricate designs. _Almost like blood_.

He began to grow excited, thinking about it. Then she _really_ would be his bride. The other little voice in his head, the one that was growing stronger and stronger kept whispering to him. _Why not do it?_ After all, if anything happened to Becky, he would be free.

As he was contemplating that thought, the alarm light went off in his study. When he looked up from his computer at it, his eyes were full of madness.

_Intruders._

**Jim and Trixie's…**

Hulk came into the apartment as fast as his bulk would allow him to. "Take a look at this security footage from the stairwell and the front door." He passed the smartphone over to Will.

The footage from the lobby showed a tall woman striding purposely through the throng, showing her identification to one of the doormen and being waved on. "Big John talked to the guy and he said that lady showed him _Interpol_ identification," Hulk stated. He tapped a few keys on the phone and it brought up the footage from the stairwell.

Jim was carrying a backpack, and leaving quietly with Aidan McCourt from the third floor and the mysterious woman purportedly from Interpol.

"They're going after Trixie. They think she's at this abandoned building." Will had to get his wits about him. He had to _think_. "Where are Starsky and Hutch?" he asked Anna.

"I believe they are in the hallway communicating with police headquarters," Hulk replied. "Do you want…" He never got a chance to finish the sentence. The three members of Locard were out of there in a flash.

"Detectives, we just got a huge break on the case. We don't have time to discuss the ins and outs. We need to get to 5 Beekman Street ASAP. Get a swat team out there, but have them wait for us; go in quiet, no lights, no sirens. I believe we identified the identity of the person who kidnapped Trixie and you're not going to believe this."

**5 Beekman… Ground-floor**

Jim crawled through the broken glass panel on the door first, followed by Jody and then Aidan bringing up the rear. He reached into his backpack and handed the other two flashlights. Pressing their backs against the wall, they began to investigate the ruined lobby.

Any other time, Jim might have felt sad at the wreck this once elegant building had become. The walls were pasty gray, crumbling with age and when he flashed his light at the ceiling, exposed pipes and wires hung haphazardly.

He paused, listening intently for any sound that would tell him where Trixie was being held. He was met with only the creaking silence of the dilapidated building that reminded him in some strange way, of his uncle's creepy mansion. Only this time two young girls wouldn't find a scared young man hiding from the world; instead, he did not want to give voice to what he was afraid he _would_ find.

The blackness of the lobby was cut by a large rectangle of dim light. They couldn't imagine the source of the light and they crept alongside the wall toward it. And what they found was amazing.

They looked up and up and up, seeing the floors with ornate iron railing surrounding the large rectangular space, right up into the night sky and the gently glowing moon. "It's an atrium," Jody whispered. "It's simply miraculous in a place like this."

As they were staring up for a brief second, a white light flashed on one of the upper floors. Aidan blinked his eyes, wondering if he really saw that or if it was some trick of the moonlight glinting off some shiny surface in this beautiful ruin.

"I thought I saw a light flash on the top floor," Jody whispered. "Did either of you two see it?" Both of them nodded assent.

_This means,_ Jim thought, _there was somebody in this building_. And whoever it was, whether it was Jody's brother or not, Jim was sure of one thing.

_Trixie was with him._

He gestured silently to the stairwell, and hoped Jody and Aidan were ready for an eight story climb. Pasting themselves against the wall, they begin the long climb up to the atrium and possibly to Trixie.

**5 Beekman…Trixie's room…**

The white light was still flashing soundlessly in her room. She kept her eyes closed against the brightness, and because she was hyperalert, she heard the door to her room close softly. She began to concentrate on her breathing to make it slow and deep as if she were still asleep.

Trixie felt his weight on the bed, but not on her side. On the side next to that damn doll. Without warning, he began whispering to Becky.

"Is she still asleep? We have intruders, Becky." _Damn_. He really hoped she was. He didn't want to have to deal with her, Becky and the person or persons who entered his private domain.

"Yes she is, darling. Don't you think you should go take care of the intruders?" Her glass eye was looking at him with its ever present glow.

"Don't nag me, Becky. It's probably just some homeless person looking for a place to flop. God knows there are enough of them in New York." He was getting really frustrated now. Becky was nagging as usual, almost-Becky was not becoming Becky as quickly as he wanted her to, but most of all he was missing _the blood_. The exquisite feeling, its slipperiness and its coppery smell. He missed watching it well out of the artistic creations his scalpel wrought on his carefully chosen blank canvases.

"I have a crossbow with me. I'm going to check it out right now." There was a method to his madness, even in the state he was in now. Guns were loud, dirty and left too much evidence. A crossbow was an elegant weapon, silent and deadly in the hand of one who knew what he was doing.

_And he knew what he was doing._

Trixie felt his weight leave the bed and began to pray in earnest. All she kept chanting were the same six words over and over. _Please don't let it be Jim_.

**Coming up the staircase…**

Trixie's erstwhile rescuers were moving swiftly up the shallow stairs. Jim held his hand out to them when they reached the fourth floor. There was an audible click, as if somebody opened and shut a door and another brief flash of white light. He motioned for them to continue on up, pantomiming shutting off their flashlights and ascending the stairs lit only by the light coming from the moon.

When they reached the seventh floor, the same click was heard and again, the flash of white. Only this time, the person who was two floors above them spoke, his voice echoing in the empty, cavernous building.

"Whoever is down there. This is my building. You are trespassing. I have called the authorities. I would advise you to exit this building the same way that you came. I can and will defend my property."

Jody stopped dead. It was one thing to dream of the revenge that she craved as much as she needed to breathe air. It was another thing to hear the voice, a bit deeper, a bit older; the voice of the monster that was her brother. Every single bit of blood drained out of her face and for a moment the world gave a funny little spin.

After all these years, all the heartache and all the pain, all the running away; becoming as obsessed with _him_ as he was with _Becky_; she was about to meet her worst enemy. It was almost surreal.

She hoped she had the courage to do what she came to do. Face him and _make him pay._

The trio began their ascent once more, trying to be as silent as possible and keeping to the shadows against the wall. He wanted to break into a run, Jim did; he wanted to face the man upstairs and wrap his long, strong fingers around the man's neck. But more than that, he wanted to find his wife okay and unharmed.

Because if anything had happened to his Trixie, anything at all, her captor would not live beyond this hour. He was damn certain of that.

Trixie pushed herself up into a sitting position and waited for the wave of dizziness to pass. Obviously she didn't wash out the water bottle well enough; there must've been some residue of the drug he had been giving her in there. She needed to get out there, warn whoever was coming that he was armed and dangerous. She wouldn't let him take another innocent life.

The bright flashing light was giving her a headache and oddly, she wish she had a pair of sunglasses. Just like the ones she'd lost last summer at Cobbett's Island, and didn't they have such a really good time when they were there? It was so much better than their first trip because this time she and Jim got to share a room and the bed.

She swayed a bit and realized her thoughts were wandering. Trying to pull herself together she pushed a little bit against her pillow and Becky fell against her arm. _Becky!_ Her bargaining tool. She didn't want to touch the disgusting object again, didn't want to have it anywhere near her body. Biting her lip, and swallowing the bile that was rising in her throat, she picked up the doll and slid out of bed.

With carefully measured steps, putting one foot slowly in front of the other, she began the long walk to the outside door and hoped that he forgot to lock it.

Hunter Lavigne was getting agitated. There was no answer to his peremptory challenge. Yet he knew, knew with the certainty of his madness, that there was _someone else _in his building. He tried moving to different areas of the railing, staring down to the lobby below, but the light was too dim.

The only thing he could do was to wait for whoever was climbing the stairs and greet them with an arrow to the heart.

They had finally reached the level of the atrium. Jim motioned for them to stop in the shadows. A few more steps up, and they would be on the same level as the man he was sure was holding his wife captive. All because of a freaking doll. His keen eyes picked out the figure of the man on the other side of the railing, staring down into the lobby trying vainly to see them.

He didn't see the crossbow.

Trixie's shaky hand reached for the knob and pushed, and amazingly enough, Lavigne forgot to lock it. Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door as quietly as she could.

Jim's voice rang out from the shadows. "Give it up, Lavigne or whoever you are. You have Trixie. I want her back. She is _not_ yours."

He was astonished. It was that man from almost-Becky's before life. How the _hell_ did he find him? And who the hell did he tell? Lavigne kept the crossbow at the ready, but he needed to find out a few answers first.

"She is no longer yours. She belongs to me. She was just waiting for me to come and wake her up. Leave here and you will live." _Of course he wouldn't_. He wouldn't have any qualms about shooting the redhead right in the back.

At the same time Jim, Aidan and Jody stepped foot on the ninth floor, at the same time Lavigne sighted his crossbow, Trixie and Becky staggered out of the door and directly into the line of fire.

**Outside 5 Beekman…**

The police had closed off the block and were in the process of evacuating the patrons of the coffeehouse on the corner. People were milling about, impatient and unhappy and demanding to know what was going on. They began to complain more when they saw the police open the barricade to allow several cars to pass.

Will Brietling and Stephen Jensen emerged from the first car, taking a good look at the façade of the building they now believed their colleague and friend was being held in by a madman. "Officer, get these people out of here," Jensen was saying. "We don't know if he has an arsenal in there or if it's going to be something even worse." He wouldn't put it past the man that they knew as the Dollmaker to choose to go out dramatically. Unfortunately, he had seen it before.

The SWAT team was positioning itself around the building, going in silent as had been requested, and waiting for the signal to storm the building. Dhannie and Levi were making a short report to Will.

"The first officer on scene reported that one of the lobby doors had been broken into." Dhannie spoke rapidly. "We're almost sure that it was Jim, Aidan and the mystery woman from Interpol." They began walking toward the lobby doors and were just about there when they heard the echoing voices coming from within.

"Trixie!" Jim closed his eyes briefly. _She was alive_. She was alive.

"Hunter. Put down the bow. It's me, _Becky_." Trixie stood directly in front of him, still holding on to the ruined doll, and praying the red flames of madness reflected at his eyes were not burning out the last vestiges of sanity.

"_Yeah Hunter_. Put down the bow, you little shit." Jody's voice suddenly rang out and she stepped directly into the light. "You always _were_ a coward. You never could pick on anybody your own size. Even when you killed mom and dad, you didn't even have the guts to do it _directly_. You hid behind a fire."

His head snapped back. "Jody." His voice was calm and smooth, almost conversational in tone. "I always knew you were alive. And here you are. You should've died in that fire, you know. Why didn't you?"

"Because you don't know _everything_. I was out that night. I got home just in time to see the house go up in flames. You _think_ you're such a genius. It wasn't hard for dad and me to set up an escape route. You think we didn't know what you were, what you are. I've been watching all these years, Hunter. Just waiting for the right time to come back. You were so close to me a couple of times but you never found me." She tapped her head. "Perhaps you're not as smart as you think you are."

He giggled, a high-pitched grating sound. "Oh, Jody. If you _only_ knew. I'm glad you're here though. You see," he said gesturing to Trixie. "Becky. She's alive, just as she always was from the day that she came into our home. I knew I would succeed and I did. And now I have the distinct pleasure of getting rid of you, Red here, and whoever the other man is with you. I have money you know and money covers a lot of tracks."

"It didn't cover _yours_ well enough, Lavigne," Jim sneered. "You're getting sloppy. We were able to find you. The police are gonna find you, too. And I hope to hell they shoot you right through the head." His emerald eyes were fixated on his wife. She didn't look well. She was swaying slightly and holding onto that creepy looking doll with a death grip.

Lavigne flicked his fingers as if to dismiss Jim's heated comments. "I repeat. _I have money_. By the time the police figure anything out, _if_ they do it all, I'll be long gone with Becky to a place that has no extradition treaty with the United States. Becky and I are going to have a child you know. Maybe more than one."

Aidan spoke up. "Do you think you'll be welcomed in _any_ country? A serial killer? A man that cut up women? I don't think you can go anywhere. You'll be hunted down and killed like the dog that you are."

For the first time Lavigne seemed agitated. "Don't say anything about the women on the island. Not anything at all." He swung the bow in Aidan's direction, but his eyes were on Trixie.

He never told Becky anything about cutting up the women in Montréal. "What do you mean cutting up women in Montréal? You never spoke to me about it," Trixie accused him.

"Because you wouldn't understand, Becky. I _had_ to do it. Had to." His voice was becoming pressured, his speech increasing in tempo.

Trixie knew the case. She knew some of the women that were murdered were prostitutes. "And did you have _sex _with any of them? Don't lie to me anymore." She made her voice shrill and accusing. "_Did you_?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jim began to inch forward, Aidan right behind. But Jody was reaching behind her and Trixie saw the glint of the gun.

And then he said the most chilling words she had ever heard. _"Not while they were alive."_

Jody took the policeman's stance, both hands holding the gun steady and pointed it directly at her brother. She called out to him because she wanted to look him in the face when she pulled the trigger. "Hunter."

He swung around, facing her, taking aim with the crossbow. "It figures you would bring a gun. You never were very smart, Jody. You do know I killed your best friend," he taunted. "I carry a part of her with me _all the time_."

Her hand began to shake and she couldn't pull the trigger, not when she had a chance of hitting Trixie. As her brother took aim at her, Trixie stumbled a bit and grabbed onto the railing for support. She looked down eight stories; saw the police officers silently filing in. And she took her chance.

_"I'm not Becky, you sick freak."_ Grasping the railing tightly, dizziness overwhelming her, she flung Becky out into space and watched as the doll went tumbling, a victim of gravity.

Becky's scream reverberated through his brain and he had but one thought: to save her again as he did so many years ago from the fire. He tossed his crossbow to the floor and leapt after her.

He never made a sound as he fell eight stories to the floor; there was only the awful sound of a human body accelerating towards the earth and making contact. Up on the ninth floor, Jody's eyes went wide with shock, and her hands began to shake uncontrollably. Aidan gently pried the gun out of her fingers as she stood there trembling. It was over. _It was finally over_.

Jim was at Trixie's side in an instant, gathering her close to him, saying her name over and over. "He didn't hurt you, did he baby?" She was _very_ pale and her skin was clammy.

"_Jim_. I _knew_ you'd come." They were the last words she breathed before her eyes rolled back in her head as she finally succumbed to the whirling sensation and her world went dark.

A/N: Many thanks to my lovely and talented editors, Mylee, Cindy, Jo and Jenny. Any errors are all mine 'cause you know I just _haf_ to play around after it's edited! It's a requirement!


	41. Tabloid Trix  Epilogue

Tabloid Trix Chapter 40 – Epilogue

**Two months later… Jim and Trixie's apartment…**

Jim was watching her sleep. She had gotten better over the past two months. The simple act of leaning over and brushing his lips against hers occasionally brought on a flashback to that awful bed in that ruined building.

He was _never_ so scared, not even when facing that dead creepy bastard with the crossbow, as he was when Trixie went limp in his arms. Even now, he couldn't remember too much of the race across town in the ambulance to the hospital, the medics feverishly working her over and him trying to curl himself up into a little ball out of their way.

They wouldn't let him in the triage area, wouldn't let him next to his wife. All he could remember during the long dark hours was praying harder than he ever prayed in his entire life. God wouldn't be so cruel as to take his parents away and now _her_. He remembered running down those stairs, seeing the body of Hunter Lavigne broken on the concrete floor, his lifeblood seeping from him, as ruined as 5 Beekman Street. But at least the building could be rehabbed. Lavigne never could be.

If he wasn't dead, Jim would've killed him with his bare hands.

His green eyes kept steady watch over her, his schoolgirl shamus. The nightmares had been lessening; the psychologist that Locard had provided was helping immensely. So was the satisfaction of her internship at the organization. She assisted on one or two more cases that provided valuable clues to the local law enforcement. Her unique perspective was valued by her colleagues there across the board, as well as her unique insight into the mind of a serial killer.

Of course, there _was _fallout from the whole situation.

Amazingly enough, Hunter Lavigne left his entire estate to his sister Jody. In his will, he wrote that he never believed that Jody died in that fire and commanded his executor to find her.

When the police searched 5 Beekman, they found the horrible secret in the closet in the room Lavigne had designed as his and Trixie's bridal chamber. Jars upon jars of eyeballs floating in embalming fluid, forever unblinking. All labeled and dated very efficiently.

The sight of it caused several veteran police officers to hork violently.

And now they were dealing with the aftermath. After all, what can be more sensational than a reclusive, mad billionaire serial killer obsessed with a doll, the return of a missing sister who the world thought was dead, and the kidnapping of the daughter-in-law of one of the wealthiest men in the United States? The press ran with it for several weeks, making all their lives unbearable. Trixie was lauded in the press as the woman who brought down the Dollmaker. _The pretty woman who looked enough like a doll to catch the eye of this depraved individual._

If the Bob-Whites hated being a front page story in a little-read gossip magazine that had died a quick death, they absolutely despised being national news. They were stalked before by some crazed fans and that bastard Paul Trent, but now? Now they couldn't leave their building without some paparazzi to document every move. Hulk, Big John and Tiny became permanent members of the Bob-White entourage.

And the legend began to germinate of the female Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

They _all _wanted the story. His father's publicist was fielding offers from every major news organization, news show and talk show both here and abroad. And Trixie would have _none_ of it. Dr. Breitling, Anna Ciccone and Stephen Jensen supported her in her decision not to go public. The Locard Society made a brief public statement; it acknowledged that one of their investigators was involved in the apprehension of the serial killer and that they were glad the families of the victims finally had closure. And that was all that they were going to say. They would take no questions and the subject was closed.

It was fascinating to realize that Jody Lavigne and Aidan McCourt had forged an odd sort of bond during the fallout from the death of her brother. Both Matt Wheeler and Ed Lynch had offered to steer her through the intricacies of running the empire her brother had amassed, and she had eagerly accepted. She and Aidan were busy working on setting up survivors' funds for the families of the women her brother had so brutally murdered.

Jim kind of hoped that this adventure would cure Aidan of his crush on Trixie. He was more than grateful for Aidan's assistance, but he still couldn't control that tiny niggle of jealousy whenever he saw them together. Aidan was increasingly involved assisting Jody and helped her with the decision to change the name of the parent corporation from RJL, Inc. to Phoenix Rising, Inc. because that's what it felt like they were doing; rising from the ashes of Hunter Lavigne's obsession and building something good.

The few existing Rebecca Jonsson dolls were being sold on eBay at tremendously inflated prices. Some enterprising souls tried to replicate the look of Becky by actually setting fire to their own copies.

It just went to prove that people were _really_ sick at times.

Bastian made a full recovery and was back picking up passengers in the streets of Manhattan. But he had learned his lesson too. There was a new barrier in all his cabs between the driver and the passenger, something he never believed in before. He wasn't quite so bright and friendly, but that would come back in time.

Jim continued to watch his special girl sleep, her long blonde lashes resting lightly against her cheeks, and all that beautiful blonde hair spread out on her pillow. Of all the crazy things that happened to them since he met her, this was the craziest. All the lectures, all the worry about the choice of her chosen profession, and she was in the most danger because of the way she resembled a freaking _doll_. He wondered if, when she was a little girl burying dolls out in the Orchard, she had some sort of sixth sense about them.

Obviously, the gods were laughing at him; at _them_.

Her eyelids fluttered, opening up to reveal sleepy blue eyes that immediately fastened on his green ones. "Hi, baby. What are you doing?" Jim was leaning over her, a curl swirled around his index finger and the most astonishingly tender expression reflected in his eyes.

He smiled crookedly, leaned down and gave her a hard peck on the lips. "Making love to my wife," he said, his voice coming out thickly around the lump in his throat. "I love you, Trix."

Her eyes began to sparkle and she lifted a hand to his cheek and felt the rasp there. "I love you more than anything, James Winthrop Frayne the second. Guess what!" She hoped the news that she had to give him would make him smile. It had been a rough couple months for them, full of adjustments to their newfound fame, Jim's graduation, his incredible LSAT scores and now the beginning of the long road ahead in graduate school.

"What? You got an offer from Oprah Winfrey?" he teased.

She pretended to buff her nails on her shoulder. She waved an airy hand. "Oh _that!_ That came ages ago! You've got to get with the _program_ here, James." She paused taking a deep breath. "I heard through the grapevine at school that Prof. Masse is planning to write a book – a sort of fictionalized dramatization – about having a _schoolgirl shamus_ in his class and how he helped shape her into the greatest detective in the world. Sound like anybody you know?" Her sunny smile broke out as she teased her husband.

His eyes widened and he gave her a large answering smile. "He's writing a book about _Honey_?" and had to laugh at the expression on her face. "_Seriously_ Trix? After all the problems?"

"Well you know, Will says in academia it's _publish or perish_ as the battle cry." Her slender fingers began pleating the sheet. "I don't mind, really. But I did ask Will to have his connection at John Jay obtain an advance copy of the book. If it hits too close to home I'll sic your dad on him."

"You know what, baby? I'm tired of crazy professors and even crazier serial killers and dolls and light bulbs flashing in my face everywhere I go. I think we need to get away. I think we should plan a vacation. Just the two of us. Somewhere far away, with a white sand beach, some palm trees and absolutely nobody who ever heard of serial killers or disfigured dolls. What do you say?" He leaned down closer, his lips hovering right above hers.

Her hands looped around his neck as she brought her lips to his and curved them in a smile. "I think that would be _just_ what the doctor ordered, Jim." She spoke against his lips, and the erotic feeling of her soft lips moving against his arrowed straight through him.

They sank down into the pillows, the desire that always bubbled just under the surface igniting into an all-encompassing flame.

The woman was standing in the ice cold bathroom, her eyes tightly shut while she ticked off the minutes in her mind by humming the Jeopardy tune over and over. It was simply awesome that a piece of music could be written to count down exactly 30 seconds, she thought inanely.

She was freezing, standing there in her pretty floral lingerie set, in the harsh florescent light. As the last note faded from thought, she carefully opened her eyes and schooled her face into a blank expression.

The little stick dropped from her suddenly boneless fingers and bounced on the floor. She leaned against the cold tiles, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, her head on her knees and her body full of gooseflesh.

Pregnant. It said pregnant.

She didn't notice the pretty navy blue and white tiles or the fancy pedestal sink or the etched glass mirror. She didn't notice when shivers began to wrack her slender limbs.

All she could think about was that eight letter word that suddenly tipped her world.

_Pregnant._

_Now_ what was she supposed to do?

A/N: I would love to give a big hug to my long-suffering editors, Mylee, Cindy, Jo and Jenny. They provided spot-on comments and encouragement that was so greatly appreciated! Thank you ladies!

I especially want to thank you, Dear Reader, for sticking with me throughout this story, even the dark and creepy parts! Your wonderful comments mean the world to me. I've been writing fan fiction for about a year and a half, and it's been a learning experience; you were all there with me, gently pushing and prodding me ever onwards and upwards. Words cannot express my appreciation for all of YOU! You are the BEST!


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